OK  GALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


[See  p.  343 

HE   DREW  HER   TOWARD   HIM  AND —WITH  AN  INARTICULATE 
WORD   ABOUT   THE   MORROW — WAS   GONE 


THE 

LIFE-BUILDERS 


A    NOVEL 


BY 

ELIZABETH  DEJEANS 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  HOUSE  OF  THANE" 


HARPER  &•  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK  AND    LONDON 

MCMX  V 


COPYRIGHT.    1915     BY   HARPER   &    BROTHERS 


PUBLISHED    APRIL.    1915 
C-P 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 


2129156 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 


CHAPTER  I 

A^YTH'S  thoughts  ran  on  regardless  of  the  disjointed 
conversation  about  him.  He  and  those  at  table 
with  him  were  the  products  of  much  the  same  environ- 
ment; they  were  all  of  the  Middle  West,  that  fertile  pro- 
ducer of  virile  men  and  women,  outgrowth  of  its  rich  soil, 
one  with  the  miles  of  waving  wheat,  the  river-bottoms' 
rank  output  of  corn,  the  sweet-scented  fields  of  timothy 
and  clover — and  the  capable  schoolhouses  with  windows 
looking  east  and  west,  tempting  the  spirit  of  youth  to  the 
beyond.  Brain  and  brawn  and  energy  a-plenty  it  pro- 
duced, that  great  Middle  West,  and  in  spite  of — or  was 
it  possibly  because  of? — its  solidly  material  prosperity. 

The  windows  above  the  terraces  into  which  his  host  had 
fashioned  the  hillside  were  thrown  wide  to  catch  what 
breeze  there  might  be,  affording  a  far  view  of  Turawa 
Valley.  Below,  in  the  near  distance,  was  the  river  with  an 
arm  circling  the  town  of  New  Rome,  and  beyond,  on  the 
flats,  was  its  grimy  foster-child,  Rblling-Mill  City,  straight 
streets  of  cottages  for  the  housing  of  mill-hands.  There 
was  also  the  collection  of  smoke-stacks,  furnace-sheds, 
piles  of  slag,  all  blue-hazed  by  smoke,  and  even  in  the 
daylight  flecked  by  tongues  of  flame,  the  hot  belchings 
from  furnace  doors.  Beyond  the  panting  activity  of  the 
mills  were  quiet  stretches  of  wheat-land,  bearing  a  crop  of 

i 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

stubble,  and  circling  all  the  wooded  hills  whose  conelike 
crowns  Alyth  knew  better  than  he  knew  the  mining 
engineer's  alphabet.  It  was  Illinois  in  midsummer. 

How  well  he  knew  it  all !  Alyth's  keen  sight  could  dis- 
tinguish close  to  the  court-house  square  the  patch  of  gray 
with  a  red  roof  that  had  been  his  home  when  he  wore 
pinafores.  A  village  New  Rome  had  been  then,  and  now 
it  numbered  not  more  than  ten  thousand  souls;  the  activ- 
ities of  Mill  City  had  added  but  a  few  thousand  to  its 
population.  Yet,  for  the  Middle  West,  New  Rome  was 
an  ancient  institution;  it  was  much  older  than  Chicago. 
New  Rome  had  been  founded  by  pioneers  who  had  done 
strange  things  to  the  Indians,  by  Puritans  from  New 
England,  and  later  by  Pennsylvania  Dutch.  It  also  had 
its  foreign  colony — Alsatians,  who  still  spoke  German  and 
French. 

Alyth's  thoughts  were  somewhat  suddenly  focused, 
for  the  girl  who  sat  beside  him  had  turned  to  him. 

"You  are  looking  at  New  Rome.  ...  I  have  been  think- 
ing that  we  are  most  of  us,  like  the  old  German  women 
down  there,  simply  putting  together  a  patchwork  quilt. 
We  accumulate  experiences — sometimes  a  number  of 
them — scarcely  glancing  at  them.  Then  again  we  acquire 
them  one  by  one — bits  of  color  whose  history  we  don't 
forget.  Then  by  and  by,  when  there  appears  to  be  only 
retrospect  left,  we  begin  to  piece  them  together  and  see 
the  whole,  one's  life  laid  out  like  a  pattern.  ...  It  is  a 
little  like  that,  is  it  not,  Mr.  Alyth?" 

"With  some  of  us,  certainty,"  Alyth  agreed. 
^  He  studied  her  a  moment.  Her  fanciful  remark  had 
fitted  in  oddly  with  his  silent  observations  of  the  Milenberg 
family.  They  were  six  at  table— James  Milenberg,  her 
father,  keenly  appraising  as  usual;  Mrs.  Milenberg,  whose 
steady  trickle  of  conversation  had  required  only  a  modi- 
cum of  Alyth's  attention;  Karl  Janniss,  the  artist,  whose 
ill-concealed  interest  in  Myra  Milenberg's  every  move- 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

ment  Alyth  had  noticed,  and,  beside  her,  Justin  St.  Claire. 
St.  Claire  was  certainly  offering  the  girl  a  bright  bit  of 
color  with  the  dark  lining  well  concealed.  Did  she  mean 
to  take  it,  and  by  and  by  would  she  painfully  stitch 
it  into  place,  Alyth  wondered?  He  had  been  wondering 
ever  since  he  had  met  her,  so  her  remark  seemed  oddly 
timed — a  bit  of  thought-transference. 

Alyth  understood  perfectly.  The  family  interest  cen- 
tered in  St.  Claire's  courtship  of  the  daughter;  he  and 
Karl  Janniss  had  no  part  in  it.  Janniss  had  been  sum- 
moned from  New  York  to  paint  Milenberg's  portrait ;  like 
Alyth,  he  had  only  a  business  connection  with  the  mill- 
ionaire, and  was  meeting  his  wife  and  daughter  for  the 
first  time.  Alyth  knew  that  Milenberg's  interest  in  him 
had  ceased  at  the  moment  when,  his  expert  opinion  on 
Milenberg's  Nevada  mine  delivered,  their  party  was  free 
to  speed  eastward.  They  had  stopped  in  Illinois,  at 
Milenberg's  home — one  of  his  homes — St.  Claire  evident- 
ly for  urgent  reasons  of  his  own,  and  Alyth  because  Milen- 
berg's invitation  had  included  him,  tempting  him  too 
strongly  to  see  again  the  town  where,  some  thirty-one 
years  before,  he  had  been  born. 

Both  Mrs.  Milenberg  and  her  husband  had  originated 
in  New  Rome,  and  in  her  gentle  way,  gentle  in  spite  of 
her  Middle  West  voice  and  occasional  lapses  in  grammar, 
she  was  impressing  the  fact  upon  Alyth,  a  sort  of  minor 
accompaniment  to  his  thoughts: 

"  I  knew  your  mother  well — we  grew  up  here  together," 
she  was  saying.  "The  moment  Mr.  Milenberg  intro- 
duced you  I  knew  you  must  be  Kitty  Alyth's  son.  You 
have  her  eyes.  I  remember  when  you  were  born — it  was 
the  same  day  I  married  Mr.  Milenberg."  She  glanced 
across  the  table  at  her  husband,  an  almost  imperceptible 
pause  caused  by  a  tightening  of  the  lips.  Then  she  con- 
tinued in  her  pleasant,  ordinary  way:  "I  had  three 
children  before  Myra  came,  so  when  she  was  a  baby  you 

3 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

were  a  big  boy  of  eleven.  We  left  New  Rome  then- 
Mr.  Milenberg  had  gone  into  business  in  Chicago— but  I 
always  kept  up  my  friendship  with  your  mother." 

"I  suppose  I  saw  you  more  than  once  when  I  was  a 
boy,"  Myth  said,  "but  I  don't  remember  you— a  boy's 
recollections  are  odd,  disjointed  things,  usually,  with  em- 
phasis laid  on  much  that  is  trivial." 

"I  have  always  known  about  you,  though,  and  I've 
met  your  father-in  law,  Mr.  Baker.  Mr.  Milenberg  says 
he  is  the  best  manager  the  mills  ever  had,  and  a  good 
business  man.  So,  you  see,  I've  heard  all  about  your 
marriage."  She  was  smiling  at  him,  and  in  her  smile 
there  was  a  faint  reminder  of  her  daughter,  the  only  like- 
ness Alyth  had  as  yet  discovered. 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  tonelessly.  Alyth  knew  that  his 
marriage  was  treasured  as  one  of  the  romances  of  New 
Rome. 

"Since  Mr.  Milenberg  built  this  house  I  come  here  a 
lot,  for  of  course,  now  that  he  has  become  such  a  big  busi- 
ness man  and  is  going  from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the 
other  all  the  time,  I  can't  follow  him  about.  We  have 
just  as  big  a  house  as  this  in  Chicago,  but  I  like  it  better 
here  because  my  friends  are  here.  Then  the  last  four 
years  Myra  has  been  away  so  much  at  school  in  New  York, 
or  abroad,  so  it's  left  me  a  good  deal  alone."  When  she 
spoke  of  her  husband  the  smile  left  her  face,  and  now 
there  was  wistfulness  in  her  voice.  "  I  often  wish,  though, 
that  this  house  was  not  so  big  and  such  a  care.  I'd  much 
rather  live  down  there  in  New  Rome  in  the  old  house  my 
father  left  me — "  She  caught  herself  up,  her  faded 
cheeks  reddening  uncomfortably.  "It's  just  that  the — 
that  the  old  house  is  more  home,  somehow." 

"I  know,"  Alyth  said,  helping  her  out.  "You  are 
attached  to  your  old  home.  It  is  not  easy  to  feel  an 
affection  for  a  recent  structure,  however  imposing  it 
may  be." 

4 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  a  little  hastily,  "that  is  what  I 
mean." 

But  Alyth  knew  that  it  was  not  all  her  meaning.  She 
was  pathetic,  he  thought.  She  was  so  ordinary  an  exam- 
ple of  the  unprogressive  of  the  generation  preceding  his 
own.  Alyth  had  had  cause  to  wonder  endlessly  over  that 
type  of  woman.  Each  generation  appeared  to  have  its 
particular  manifestation  of  the  feminine  unchangeable, 
the  woman  whom  her  husband  outgrows,  one  of  the  ap- 
parently inevitable  tragedies  of  marriage.  Alyth  knew — 
as  who  did  not  who  knew  James  Milenberg  well — that 
this  colorless  woman  must  long  ago  have  become  a  mere 
appendage  to  her  forceful  husband.  She  had  evidently 
faded  early.  She  was  certainly  not  older  than  her  hus- 
band, yet  at  fifty  he  was  alert,  keen-eyed,  virile;  not  a 
tall  man — under  medium  height,  rather,  but  wiry.  His 
aquiline  face  was  lined,  yet  the  lines  had  not  the  sugges- 
tion of  his  wife's  wrinkles.  Both  her  face  and  figure  had 
the  down-drawn  look  of  weakened  muscles  so  frequently 
seen  in  the  middle-aged  woman  of  the  generation  pre- 
ceding her  own.  Still,  her  somewhat  sunken  eyes  were 
pleasant.  They  were  brown  and  steadfast,  the  eyes  of 
a  good  and  patient  though  not  very  intelligent  woman. 
Alyth  liked  her  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  her  conversation 
did  not  ruffle  even  the  surface  of  his  thoughts. 

It  was  the  daughter  who  interested  Alyth.  The  mo- 
ment he  had  seen  her  meeting  with  St.  Claire  he  had 
recognized  the  immense  attraction  the  man  must  have  for 
her.  Most  women  were  attracted  by  Justin  St.  Claire, 
and  Myra  Milenberg's  type  would  be  irresistibly  drawn. 
The  child  of  such  typically  nouveau  riche  parents  would 
naturally  be  passionately  admiring  of  culture  and  family 
position  of  long  standing.  The  girl's  entire  manner  and 
her  carefully  chosen  Anglo-New-York  speech  showed  her 
bias.  She  had  a  clear-enough  understanding  of  her 
father's  unscrupulous  methods  and  her  mother's  short- 

'  5 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

comings.  Marriage  with  St.  Claire  would  give  her  the 
things  she  craved,  for  though  a  Middle- Westerner  like 
herself,  St.  Claire  was  the  product  of  generations  of  cul- 
ture. He  was  a  native  of  St.  Louis,  a  city  that  has  always 
been  more  Southern  than  Western,  and  that  boasts  a 
history.  He  was  of  French  descent,  his  family  being  one 
of  the  oldest  in  Missouri. 

And  the  man  had,  in  addition,  a  fascinating  personality. 
He  was  courtly  in  manner,  quick-witted,  genially  shrewd, 
politic  to  the  last  degree.  His  acute  legal  mind,  combined 
with  his  popular  qualities,  had  made  Justin  St.  Claire  a 
power  in  his  city,  and  had  brought  him  into  high  favor 
with  the  ruling  administration.  He  was  also  extraordi- 
narily good-looking.  Though  forty-one,  he  was  still  slen- 
der, as  noticeable  for  his  height,  soldierly  carriage,  and 
well-shaped  head  as  for  his  very  regular  features  and 
brilliant  eyes.  With  a  mustache  twisted  above  his  warm- 
lipped  mouth,  and  a  slight  exaggeration  in  dress,  he  would 
look  thoroughly  the  Frenchman.  Clean-shaven,  and  in 
incisive  business  attire,  he  looked  what  he  was,  a  striking- 
ly handsome  American  gentleman,  a  lawyer  of  the  new 
order — a  lawyer-financier. 

Alyth  knew  Justin  St.  Claire  exceedingly  well.  Early 
in  his  career  as  mining  engineer  he  had  come  in  touch 
with  the  lawyer,  and  in  late  years,  since  George  Alyth 
had  begun  to  rank  as  one  of  the  best  mining  experts  in 
the  country,  his  path  and  St.  Claire's  had  frequently 
crossed.  Alyth  had  lived  through  an  aging  experience  on 
the  New  York  stock-market,  a  venture  in  which  St. 
Claire  had  also  been  involved.  He  had  seen  St.  Claire 
rubbed  clean  of  veneer.  He  had  discovered  that  Justin 
St.  Claire  had  the  craving  of  the  gambler,  that  he  was 
a  taker  of  long  chances. 

Alyth  also  had  a  back-stairs  acquaintance  with  a  side 
of  St.  Claire  that  very  few  knew.  Every  one  knew  that 
St.  Claire's  wife  had  been  insane  for  years,  and  that 

6 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

during  her  life  St.  Claire  had  apparently  adapted  himself 
in  a  dignified  manner  to  his  misfortune,  and  that  after 
her  death  he  had  continued  in  his  evenly  adjusted  way. 
Scandal  had  never  touched  him;  with  the  principles  he 
advocated,  an  entanglement  would  have  been  somewhat 
disastrous. 

But  Alyth  knew  more  than  most,  so  this  attitude  of  the 
determined  suitor  was  something  of  a  shock  to  him. 
Every  look  St.  Claire  bent  upon  Myra  Milenberg  was  an 
avowal.  He  was  the  impetuous  lover,  a  part  that  Alyth 
knew  was  at  one  time  quite  natural  to  him.  Was  it  now, 
Alyth  wondered?  ...  Or  did  Milenberg's  certain  backing 
of  his  financial  ambitions,  should  he  become  his  son-in- 
law,  tempt  him?  And  St.  Claire's  political  and  social  in- 
fluence would  be  helpful  to  Milenberg. 

Milenberg  would  forward  the  match,  and  St.  Claire 
would  also  have  an  advocate  in  Mrs.  Milenberg.  To 
marry  her  daughter  to  Justin  St.  Calire  would  appear  a 
great  good  fortune;  St.  Claire  was  so  impeccable. 

Alyth  was  glad  that  the  dinner  was  nearing  a  close,  for 
he  had  discovered  that  under  her  monotonous  exterior 
Mrs.  Milenberg  was  nervous.  She  had  been  making  a 
great  effort  to  entertain  him,  introducing  in  her  hap- 
hazard fashion  one  subject  after  the  other.  Alyth  had  a 
shrewd  guess  that  Milenberg  had  ordered  his  wife  to  take 
charge  of  him  while  he  monopolized  Janniss;  he  wanted 
St.  Claire  given  a  clear  field  with  his  daughter. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  was  talking  now  of  the  old-fashioned 
garden  that  Alyth  had  noticed  on  the  lower  terrace.  "  If 
Mr.  Milenberg  puts  a  fountain  where  he  has  planned,  I'm 
afraid  my  garden  will  have  to  go,"  she  complained. 
"Still,  a  fountain  will  look  very  fine  there." 

Alyth  was  unexpectedly  interested,  though,  except  for 
the  slight  lifting  of  his  brows  that  made  his  blue  glance 
vivid,  he  looked  as  he  had  throughout  the  meal,  courte- 
ous but  unsmiling.  "So  you  are  responsible  for  that 

7 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

beautiful    garden!     I    thought    possibly    it    was    your 
daughter." 

"No;    I  planted  almost  everything  thats  there. 

"It  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  about  the  place,"  Alyth 
declared.  "I  noticed  it  at  once.  I  hope  you  will  take 
me  down  to  see  it  after  dinner." 

Mrs.  Milenberg  flushed  with  pleasure.  Evidently  she 
was  unused  to  appreciation.  "We  are  all  going  down 
after  dinner.  You  like  gardening,  then?" 

"  I  do.  My  garden  is  one  of  my  few  satisfactions.  It 
is  my  friend  in  time  of  need.  If  there  is  any  better  way 
of  working  off  irritation,  I  want  to  be  shown  it.  If  every 
man  spent  an  hour  in  his  garden  digging,  before  he  took 
the  lid  off  his  boiling  feelings,  there  would  be  fewer 
explosions." 

"But  how  do  you  manage  to  have  a  garden  in  the 
city?"  she  asked. 

"I  live  in  the  suburbs — in  Manor  Park  Place.  Every 
one  who  lives  in  New  York  lives  out  of  it — unless  he  is  so 
favored  of  fortune  that,  like  Mr.  Milenberg,  he  can  have 
several  homes." 

The  down-drawn  lines  returned  to  her  face.  "One 
home  and  a  family  kept  together  is  the  best." 

"That's  true  enough,"  he  returned,  with  quiet  em- 
phasis. 

He  looked  away  from  her  as  he  spoke,  off  at  the  roofs 
and  spires  of  New  Rome,  and  she  studied  him  in  her  un- 
obtrusive way.  Ordinarily  his  look  was  cold,  as  if  he 
were  in  the  habit  of  commenting  inwardly  on  the  things 
he  saw,  and  few  things  pleased  him.  He  looked  so  clever 
that  she  had  been  afraid  of  him.  But  when  he  spoke  of 
the  garden  she  rather  liked  him;  his  eyes  had  a  way  of 
smiling  without  asking  leave  of  his  other  features.  She 
remembered  his  father  well,  a  rough-hewn,  sandy  Scotch- 
man with  smileless  lips.  This  man  was  very  like  his 
father  only  he  was  leaner  and  taller  and  darker.  He 

8 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

had  his  mother's  black  hair  and  blue  eyes  with  thick  lashes. 
The  father  had  always  been  considered  a  hard  man,  given 
to  a  humor  that  was  two-edged.  But  the  mother,  her 
girlhood  friend,  had  been  a  black-haired,  blue-eyed  woman 
of  dreams'and  smiles  and  fiery  temper;  Irish,  a  true  Celt  in 
spite  of  two  preceding  American-born  generations.  Crit- 
ical like  his  father,  and  passionate  like  his  mother,  he 
might  be  hard  to  live  with,  Mrs.  Milenberg  thought,  yet 
she  liked  him.  He  had  a  clean,  weather-darkened  look, 
and  the  far-sighted  eyes  of  the  plainsman  that  at  close 
range  focus  swift  and  vivid.  His  was  not  a  happy  face. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  started  when  her  husband  broke  in  on 
her  thoughts.  She  had  not  realized  that  dinner  was 
over. 

"Are  we  going  to  have  coffee  here?"  he  was  asking, 
impatiently. 

"No.  I  thought  it  would  be  nicer  in  the  arbor.  I 
hadn't  noticed — "  she  answered,  nervously. 

"Let's  go,  then,"  he  said  in  his  curt  way. 

They  passed  through  long  drawing-rooms,  the  furnish- 
ing of  which  was  so  indicative  of  uneducated  taste  that 
Alyth  shrugged  mentally.  His  own  drawing-room,  though 
a  less  expensive  conglomeration,  hurt  his  finer  sense  in 
the  same  way.  Alyth  ventured  a  guess  that  Myra  Milen- 
berg had  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  furnishing  of  the 
place. 

But  the  house  itself  was  an  excellent  imitation  of  an 
Italian  villa.  Milenberg  had  evidently  not  meddled  with 
his  architect's  plans.  It  was  charmingly  placed  on  high 
ground  above  the  town,  with  the  wooded  hills  as  back- 
ground. The  uppermost  terrace,  like  the  house,  was 
Italian,  but  the  next  terrace,  on  the  outer  thrust  of  which 
was  the  arbor,  was  simply  an  old-fashioned,  rambling 
garden;  Milenberg's  activities  had  not  yet  extended  to 
it.  This  terrace,  and  the  one  below  it,  Milenberg  in- 
formed the  party,  would  be  transformed  in  a  year's  time. 

9 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"I  mean  to  show  New  Rome  a  thing  or  two,"  he  said, 
stirring  his  coffee  in  his  decided  way.  "When  I  was  a 
boy  down  there  in  New  Rome,  it  was  a  sin  to  indulge  in 
a  luxury.  A  square  of  brick  as  solid  as  a  monument, 
that  was  the  thing — if  a  man  was  sure  he  could  several 
times  over  afford  it.  There  are  dozens  of  such  old  houses 
down  there — Mrs.  Milenberg  owns  one  of  them." 

"And  now  we  mortgage  to  build  a  house  we  can't  af- 
ford to  keep,"  Alyth  remarked,  "and  ride  in  automobiles 
we  call  ours  and  don't  own." 

"I  like  the  old  way  best,"  Mrs.  Milenberg  ventured. 
"I  like  father's  old  house." 

Her  husband's  eyes  rested  on  her  a  moment,  a  glance 
bright  and  appraising.  "Of  course.  You  belong  to 
your  mother's  time,  my  dear,"  he  said,  not  ill-naturedly. 
"If  it's  a  comfort  to  you,  I'm  glad  you  possess  that  old 
brick  tomb  with  its  stone  stoop,  and  its  fence  and  gate, 
and  its  back  garden.  I  don't  mean  to  be  disrespectful 
of  it.  It's  a  thing  that's  had  its  day  and  passed  out — 
that's  all.  ...  This  is  the  age  of  advertising.  Our  houses, 
and  our  automobiles,  and  the  clothes  we  put  on  our 
women's  backs,  it's  all  advertising!" 

"Still,  when  we  want  a  homelike  party  we  always 
come  down  to  mother's  lovely  garden,"  Myra  interposed, 
lightly.  "I  am  not  pleased  with  you,  Mr.  Janniss,  for 
advising  father  to  spoil  it  by  a  fountain  of  playful  water- 
nymphs.  We  prefer  the  beds  of  love-in-a-mist  and  clove- 
pinks,  mother  and  I." 

While  her  father  was  speaking  she  had  risen  and  stood 
beside  her  mother.  She  patted  her  mother's  cheek,  draw- 
ing her  gray  head  against  her  firm  young  hip,  as  one  ca- 
resses a  child.  It  was  the  first  word  Alyth  had  heard  her 
say  to  Janniss  since  her  acknowledgment  of  Milenberg's 
introduction,  though  the  young  man's  eyes  had  been  al- 
most constantly  upon  her  during  dinner.  And  as  they 
came  down  the  terraces— St.  Claire  always  at  her  side— 

10 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

Alyth  had  noticed  how  eagerly  Janniss's  glances  had  swept 
her  from  the  crown  of  her  small,  well-set  head  to  the  arch 
of  her  slim  foot,  a  commingling  of  intensely  aroused  mas- 
culine interest  and  artistic  appreciation  that  Alyth  gauged 
very  accurately.  Indiana  had  produced  Karl  Janniss. 
He  was  a  talented  young  fellow  who  was  rapidly  making 
a  name  for  himself,  a  clean-featured,  steady-eyed  young 
man  of  Saxon  fairness.  There  was  plenty  of  capability 
and  determination  in  his  firm  chin. 

He  flushed,  evidently  taken  by  surprise.  "Why  not 
have  the  love-in-a-mist  as  well  as  the  fountain?"  he  an- 
swered, quickly. 

But  Myra  had  turned  away.  "Mr.  St.  Claire  wants 
me  to  take  him  over  the  grounds,"  she  said,  carelessly. 
On  the  way  down  Alyth  had  heard  St.  Claire  begging  her 
to  walk  with  him  after  dinner. 

Her  mother  brightened.  "Some  of  the  tea-roses  are 
blooming  yet.  Pick  one  for  Mr.  St.  Claire's  coat,  dear." 

Mrs.  Milenberg's  naivete  certainly  annoyed  her  daugh- 
ter, but  she  covered  it  well.  She  drew  her  hands  lightly 
from  her  mother's  clasp. 

"Mother  is  so  proud  of  her  roses  that  she  wants  every 
one  decorated  with  them,"  she  declared,  laughingly. 
"Mr.  Janniss,  I  will  return  with  a  rose  for  your  coat; 
and  for  you,  Mr.  Alyth."  And  she  turned  away  with  a 
swing  of  her  slim  body  that  was  gracefully  expressive  of 
independence.  Both  men  had  risen,  and  as  she  went 
Alyth's  eyes  followed  her  with  quite  as  much  admiration 
as  did  the  artist's.  There  was  something  so  spirited,  yet 
so  sweet  about  her;  young  as  she  was,  she  possessed  a 
certain  warm  charm. 

Alyth  turned  to  catch  the  irritated  glance  Milenberg 
bestowed  on  his  wife.  Then  he  shrugged  and  drank  his 
coffee  in  silence.  When  he  set  his  cup  down  it  was  to 
speak  tersely  enough. 

"Janniss,  if  you've  finished,  we'll  go.     Myra  will  want 

2  II 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

to  take  St.  Claire  for  a  ride.  .  .  .  Alyth,  will  you  go  with 
us?" 

"Thanks — no,"  Alyth  said.  "I  am  going  in  to  town. 
I  want  to  see  Mr.  Baker." 

"Take  one  of  the  motors,  then." 

Alyth  declined.  "Thank  you,  I  prefer  to  walk;  but 
first  Mrs.  Milenberg  is  going  to  show  me  her  garden." 

"As  you  like,  only  remember  there's  always  a  car  in 
the  garage  at  your  service."  And  Milenberg  carried  ths 
artist  off,  leaving  his  wife  to  fuss  nervously  with  the 
coffee-urn. 

Alyth  had  been  amused  by  the  family  byplay,  and  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  heartily  sorry  for  Myra  Milen- 
berg. Between  them  all  she  was  not  having  a  fair  chance. 
It  was  she  who  was  being  married,  and  to  Justin  St. 
Claire.  Alyth  did  not  like  St.  Claire,  and  he  knew  that 
St.  Claire  reciprocated  the  feeling.  Alyth  knew  too  much, 
and  St.  Claire  knew  that  he  did. 

As  he  drank  his  coffee,  and  then  followed  Mrs.  Milen- 
berg about  the  terrace,  Alyth  pondered  man's  unwritten 
law.  His  mouth  was  certainly  sealed.  It  was  Milen- 
berg's  province,  the  marrying  of  his  daughter.  But 
James  Milenberg  was  a  terribly  consistent  man;  he 
would  not  condemn  in  another  what  he  practised  himself. 
Alyth  looked  at  Mrs.  Milenberg's  shapeless  back,  and 
listened  to  her  commonplace  remarks  with  a  distinct  pity 
for  her,  and  at  the  same  time  with  a  certain  sympathy 
for  Milenberg.  .  .  .  Life  was  a  grand  muddle !  And  moral- 
ity a  thing  difficult  of  definition. 


CHAPTER  II 

A^  hour  later,  as  Alyth  went  out  by  the  porte-cochere, 
he  heard  his  named  called: 

"Mr.  Alyth—" 

He  saw,  to  his  surprise,  when  he  turned,  that  it  was 
Myra  Milenberg ;  he  had  thought  of  her  as  riding  with  St. 
Claire.  She  was  prepared,  evidently,  for  riding,  for  she 
was  cloaked  and  bonnetted,  and  pulling  on  gloves  as  she 
came.  The  bandlike  framing  of  her  little  bonnet  was 
particularly  becoming,  Alyth  thought.  It  made  her  face 
appear  all  eyes,  questioning  eyes. 

"  You  look  prepared  to  tour  Europe,"  he  remarked.  "I 
envy  Mr.  St.  Claire." 

"I  am  driving  alone,"  she  answered,  with  a  touch  of 
decision.  "And  you?" 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  town.  I  have  a  call  to  make." 
Alyth  guessed  instantly  that  she  had  shied  at  her  father's 
disposal  of  her,  just  as  she  had  from  her  mother's. 

"May  I  take  you?" 

Alyth  welcomed  the  invitation.  She  was  the  only  mem- 
ber of  the  family  he  had  not  fathomed.  He  had  not  yet 
decided  that  she  was  really  intelligent — a  modern  girl's 
mock  intelligence  was  frequently  so  well  disguised.  Prob- 
ably her  somewhat  mature  air  of  saying  and  doing  what 
she  pleased  was  her  particular  pose;  possibly  the  appre- 
ciation of  her  father's  dollars.  Her  suggestion  of  soft 
things,  of  silken  garments,  warm  tints,  and  perfume,  did 
not  incline  Alyth  to  a  belief  in  her  intelligence.  But  at- 
tractive she  certainly  was. 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"I  don't  wish  to  be  a  troublesome  guest,"  he  protested. 

She  smiled  then.  "But  you  are  not.  I  want  to  ride 
with  you  or  I  should  not  have  asked  you.  ...  Do  you 
mind— we  will  have  to  walk  to  the  garage?  I  don't 
know  what  has  happened — possibly  father  has  taken 
Wickham  to  drive  his  car,  and  the  two  garage  boys  are 
playing  truant,  or  father's  elaborate  telephone  system  is 
out  of  order.  I  could  get  no  answer  to  my  call." 

Talking  easily,  she  led  the  way  over  a  primly  graveled 
and  hedged  road  that  farther  along  curved  into  an  in- 
denture in  the  hillside.  Milenberg  housed  his  motors 
well.  The  garage  was  on  as  princely  a  scale  as  the 
house. 

' '  This  mischance  would  please  mother, ' '  she  said.  ' '  She 
thinks  inconveniences  are  chastening;  she  is  very  cer- 
tain that  in  the  days  when  people  were  hampered  by  in- 
conveniences they  were  simpler  and  better  people  than 
they  are  now.  Father  is  not  satisfied  unless  it  is  possible 
for  him  to  telephone — to  New  York  if  he  wants  to — with- 
out even  rising  from  his  bed.  Father  is  an  economizer 
of  time — time  is  money."  She  spoke  so  smoothly  that 
Alyth  thought  her  sarcastic  rather  than  candid.  He 
did  not  like  the  trait;  it  reminded  him  of  her  father. 
Milenberg  had  a  facile  but  biting  tongue. 

Alyth  discovered  that  she  was  a  good  chauffeur.  There 
was  no  one  at  the  garage  to  extricate  her  machine.  The 
garage  contained  a  big  limousine,  a  small  car,  and  an 
electric  brougham,  and  her  own  motor,  a  powerful  ma- 
chine with  the  long-nosed  build  of  a  racer.  It  was  close- 
ly sandwiched  between  the  limousine  and  electric,  taking 
some  skill  in  the  handling,  as  the  car  had  been  carelessly 
run  in  behind  it. 

"The  girls  must  have  brought  this  in  after  father  car- 
ried off  Wickham  in  the  tourer,"  Myra  said.  "They 
never  think  of  any  one  but  themselves,  Irma  and  Ina — 
they  don't  need  to.  ...  They  are  my  twin  sisters,  and 

14 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

younger  than  I,"  she  added.  Her  comment  on  her  sisters 
was  as  calmly  expressed  as  her  previous  remarks. 

Though  Alyth  was  as  good  a  machinist  as  the  absent 
Wickham,  he  did  not  offer  his  services,  for  he  was  too  much 
interested  in  his  companion  to  interfere.  She  had  thrown 
off  her  silk  coat,  for  even  its  light  weight  was  oppressive 
on  that  warm  evening,  and  Alyth  watched  appreciatively 
the  play  of  her  pliant  body  as  she  twisted  in  the  seat, 
busied  with  the  levers,  her  head  turned  to  look  behind 
her  or  bent  to  watch  the  wheels.  When  she  grazed  the 
limousine,  she  said  "Damn"  with  much  the  same  gravity 
and  subdued  force  as  her  father.  In  her  cultured  accents, 
and  emanating  from  her  exquisitely  gowned  personality, 
it  struck  Alyth  as  amusing.  Her  long  cloak  had  covered 
her  clinging  dinner-gown,  hiding  her  slippered  feet;  she 
had  the  thinness  and  nice  muscles  of  a  two-year-old,  and 
the  same  suggestion  of  nervous  strength;  the  back  of  her 
neck  was  firm  and  white,  with  little  locks  of  curling  hair 
straying  on  it.  She  was  a  very  vital  young  thing,  grace- 
ful and  gracious — in  spite  of  her  softly  forceful  language. 

When  they  backed  into  the  driveway  and  came  into 
position  with  a  sweeping  curve,  she  looked  at  Alyth  for 
the  first  time.  "We're  off!"  she  said.  The  color  was 
deep  in  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  bright. 

They  slipped  around  the  house  then,  and  down  the 
slope  of  driveway  and  into  a  road  that  was  an  extension 
of  the  main  street  of  New  Rome.  Alyth  admired  her 
perfect  management  of  the  machine. 

"Why  do  you  have  a  machine  like  this?"  he  asked. 
"Women  usually  like  a  high  seat."  His  unexpressed 
opinion  was,  however,  that  the  lounging  position  suited 
her. 

"Because  it  has  such  a  powerful  engine.  I  like  the 
feeling  of  handling  something  that  is  strong.  It  belongs 
to  Eustace,  really — my  brother.  Still,  when  he  comes 
back  from  Europe  Eustace  may  have  a  passion  for  horses. 

15 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  has  been  coaching  in  England,  and  as  he  likes  to 
be  British,  he  will  probably  bring  back  a  four-in-hand, 
and  persuade  some  theatrical  lady  to  grace  the  box. 
Eustace  is  an  exasperation  to  father,  and  quite  beyond 
poor  mother's  understanding." 

Alyth  did  not  know  whether  to  think  her  flippant  or 
not.  She  spoke  gravely  enough,  as  if  simply  stating  facts 
impersonally  and  quite  without  prejudice. 

They  had  reached  the  court-house  square  and  had 
begun  to  thread  their  way  between  farmers'  wagons, 
occasional  automobiles,  and  groups  of  men.  The  middle 
of  the  street  appeared  to  be  a  popular  meeting-place  for 
the  men — it  and  the  court-house  steps.  The  court-house 
itself  was  an  ambitious  pillared  structure  with  tiers  of 
stone  steps  on  the  three  sides  intended  to  impress  the 
public.  Its  top-heavy  dome  had  cost  the  county  an  as- 
tonishing sum  which  had  never  been  satisfactorily  ac- 
counted for.  At  that  date  it  leaked  shamefully,  Myra 
told  Alyth,  and  was  being  repaired — also  at  great  expense 
to  the  taxpayers. 

"Graft  is  not  unknown  in  New  Rome,  then,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"I  sometimes  think  the  tendency  originated  here." 
The  settled  gravity  of  her  reply  recalled  to  Alyth  Milen- 
berg's  record. 

Alyth  was  interested  in  looking  about  him.  Just  as 
in  his  day,  there  were  almost  as  many  women  as  men  in 
the  square,  most  of  them  young  girls.  The  elder  women 
were  either  still  busied  with  their  shopping,  or  seated  in 
their  vehicles,  waiting  for  their  men-folk,  anxious  to  be 
off  to  their  farms  before  the  mill-hands  crowded  the 
"Center"  and  filled  the  already  active  saloons.  The 
girls  from  Mill  City  were  already  there,  parading  about. 
A  little  later  they  would  flood  the  moving-picture  shows 
or  pair  off  with  their  beaux. 

The  better  class  of  townsfolk  were  about  also,  both 

16 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

on  foot  and  in  automobiles,  and  Myra  acknowledged 
greetings  occasionally.  Alyth  knew  almost  every  one 
who  spoke  to  her  and  stared  at  him,  not  in  recognition, 
but  simply  because  he  was  Myra  Milenberg's  companion. 
The  village  characteristic  was  very  familiar  to  Alyth. 
He  was  glad  that  ten  years  had  so  disguised  him  that  he 
was  not  recognized.  His  family  were  all  gone;  there  was 
no  one  in  New  Rome  he  cared  to  see,  not  even  his  father- 
in-law,  yet  he  could  not  very  well  visit  the  town  without 
calling  upon  Mr.  Baker. 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  this  is  gala-night,"  Myra 
remarked. 

"Yes,  Saturday  night — it  is  all  more  familiar  to  me 
than  Wall  Street.  As  we  go  on  I'll  show  you  the  old 
Alyth  house." 

She  looked  at  him  with  widened  eyes.  "Did  you  also 
originate  in  New  Rome?  ...  I  did  not  realize  that!  .  .  . 
That  was  why  my  mother  found  so  much  to  say  to  you. 
...  So  you  are  'small-town'  and  'Middle  West'  also. 
You  do  not  look  it.  You  have  a  New-Yorker's  face — 
a  fold  between  your  brows,  and  your  eyes  a  little  tired 
— except  when  you  happen  to  be  really  interested." 

Alyth  was  amused.  "I  do  not  consider  your  remark 
a  compliment.  I  subscribe  heartily  to  the  popular  be- 
lief that  '  the  salt  of  our  country  comes  from  the  Middle 
West.'" 

"It's  salt  that  drives  one  to  drink,"  she  returned,  with 
some  of  her  father's  brusqueness.  "We  are  so  exasperat- 
ingly  ordinary."  She  flushed  a  little  over  her  quiet  em- 
phasis. 

"There  is  no  greater  wonder  on  earth  than  Chicago," 
he  said,  both  because  he  thought  so  and  in  order  to  see 
her  eyes  widen  again. 

She  did  look  at  him,  but  refused  to  be  drawn.  "Have 
we  passed  your  old  home?"  she  asked,  a  little  disdainfully. 

Alyth  laughed  at  the  check.     "Yes,  but  it  doesn't 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

matter.  I  noticed  that  it  looked  exactly  as  it  used, 
only  somewhat  more  overshadowed  by  the  new  court- 
house. I  wonder  if  its  chimney  still  sprinkles  the  place 
with  soot.  I  remember  Grandmother  Alyth  rather  liked 
the  dirt — it  reminded  her  of  Glasgow." 

"So  your  people  were  Scotch.  My  mother's  people 
were  just  Americans — which  means  a  mixture  of  almost 
everything,  I  suppose,  including  Hebrew — and  my  fa- 
ther's family  on  his  mother's  side  were  Americans  also; 
but  my  grandfather  Milenberg  was  German.  He  was  the 
cleverest  man  who  ever  came  to  New  Rome.  He  was 
almost  an  old  man  when  he  came  here.  He  had  traveled 
a  great  deal.  ...  I  heard  mother  telling  you  about  her 
hollyhocks.  There  is  a  family  legend  that  Grandfather 
Milenberg  collected  the  seed  when  traveling  in  Palestine. 
He  was  a  scholar  and  a  poet.  I  know  now  that  some  of 
the  strange  things  I  used  to  hear  him  say  were  just  the 
remarks  of  a  philosopher.  ...  As  you  know,  all  New  Rome 
is  divided  into  three  parts — Presbyterian,  Methodist, 
and  Baptist.  The  other  'isms,'  such  as  the  Scientists, 
don't  count.  Grandfather  Milenberg  was  not  any  of 
them ;  he  was  a  '  free-thinker. '  He  was  very  fair  to  women, 
too;  he  judged  them  as  he  judged  men — that  is,  he 
'judged  not.'  I  have  a  greater  respect  for  my  grand- 
father Milenberg  than  for  any  ancestor  I  possess;  he 
was  by  nature  nncircumscribed.  .  .  .  We  have  come  the 
length  of  Main  Street.  Now  where  can  I  take  you?" 

Alyth  had  been  too  much  absorbed  by  her  to  note 
where  they  were.  They  had  crossed  the  town.  Just  be- 
fore them,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  the  street  parted  into 
two  roads,  one  leading  off  into  level  farm-land,  the  other 
climbing  the  slope  and,  as  it  circled  the  hill,  disappearing 
into  woodland. 

Alyth  cared  little  about  seeing  New  Rome;  it  was  his 
companion  who  interested  him.  "Anywhere — wherever 
you  want  to  go,"  he  declared. 

18 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"You  have  no  choice?" 

"None." 

"You  are  not  interested  in  New  Rome?" 

"Not  particularly." 

She  smiled  at  him.  "I  thought  you  were  not.  But 
your  call?" 

"I  can  make  it  later." 

Myra  glanced  behind  her.  The  sun  was  almost  set, 
going  down  behind  another  round-topped  hill  across  the 
valley.  Turning  about,  she  increased  speed.  "Shall  we 
go  up  to  the  Crotch  and  come  down  by  Rock  Creek? 
As  soon  as  the  sun  goes  we  will  have  the  moon." 

"I  should  like  it." 

They  climbed  the  hill,  ate  up  the  distance  between 
them  and  the  woodland,  and  pounded  into  it.  The  ma- 
chine climbed  well.  Myra  evidently  meant  to  reach  the 
Crotch  before  daylight  faded,  for  she  gave  her  whole 
attention  to  driving. 

Alyth  knew  every  inch  of  the  way  they  were  going; 
he  had  reason  to  remember  it.  It  was  the  favorite  drive 
of  New  Rome  lovers,  this  steep,  winding  climb  over  one 
hill  and  nearly  to  the  top  of  the  next,  that  was  united  to 
it  by  a  bridgelike  strip  of  level  land.  Alyth  wondered 
if  the  sentimental  significance  of  the  drive  had  gone  out 
of  fashion  with  the  coming  of  the  automobile.  It  was 
Saturday  evening.  In  his  day  they  would  have  passed 
more  than  one  buggy  creaking  its  way  up  the  slope.  Now 
they  were  quite  alone  on  the  hillside. 

Most  of  the  upward  way  was  through  woodland  and, 
as  they  neared  the  top,  between  rocks  interspersed  with 
lower  growth.  Before  they  reached  the  Crotch  the  sun 
was  gone,  a  clean  drop  out  of  a  cloudless  sky  that  sud- 
denly bereft  the  hills  of  brightness.  When  they  came 
out  on  the  ridge  the  dimness  of  commingled  twilight  and 
moonlight  was  upon  the  valley  below.  The  lights  were 
appearing.  Mill  City  was  taking  on  its  nightly  resem- 

19 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

blance  to  the  inferno.  Furnace-sheds,  smoke-stacks, 
train-loads  of  ore  and  steel,  the  panting  activity  of  the 
day,  all  were  blotted  out;  only  the  furnace  fires  showed, 
apparently  outbursts  from  the  earth,  now  flaring  into  a 
glow,  now  sinking  into  spots  of  hot  red.  Hung  above 
the  area  of  lifting  and  sinking  fires  were  the  steady  out- 
pourings from  the  smoke-stacks,  the  chimneys  themselves 
invisible,  only  their  belchings  of  flame-lighted  smoke  ap- 
parent. And  in  and  about,  strung  like  Christmas  candles, 
were  the  whiter  dots  of  electricity. 

Then  as  they  watched  the  lights  paled,  for  the  after- 
glow of  sunset  had  come,  a  brilliant  orange  streaked  by 
blood-stained  fingers,  and  reaching  almost  to  the  zenith. 

"We  are  a  few  minutes  late,"  Myra  said.  "We  will 
not  get  the  view." 

"  But  we  have  the  lights  and  the  afterglow." 

Myra  had  silenced  the  engine  and  was  leaning  forward, 
arm  on  the  wheel,  looking  down  into  the  valley.  Alyth 
could  see  her  in  profile,  and  he  looked  at  her  instead  of 
at  the  lights  below.  He  was  beginning  to  understand 
that  wide-eyed,  direct  way  of  hers.  It  had  come  to  him 
suddenly,  when  she  was  speaking  of  her  people,  that  she 
was  a  stranger  to  affectation  or  artifice.  In  her  clean- 
cut  impressions  there  was  the  brashness  of  youth,  but  she 
would  go  far  and  wear  well — she  was,  as  she  had  said  of 
her  grandfather,  "by  nature  uncircumscribed." 

And  she  was  lovely.  Either  the  intent  urging  of  her 
machine  up  the  hill  had  made  her  pale,  or  the  twilight 
made  her  appear  so.  Framed  in  the  little  automobile 
bonnet,  her  face  was  very  sweet  and  young  and  troubled. 
It  occurred  to  Alyth  that  she  had  run  away  from  too 
much  urging,  frightened  at  the  decision  that  was  immi- 
nent, and  that  she  had  chosen  him  for  a  companion  rather 
than  be  alone. 

Though  thoroughly  alive  to  her  charm,  it  was  her  un- 
tried youth  that  appealed  most  to  Alyth.  Just  at  this 

20 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

juncture  he  was  in  a  mood  to  feel  tremendous  sympathy 
for  the  mistakes  of  youth.  He  was -secretly  rasped  raw, 
passionately  irritated,  by  what  had  been  his  own  ignorant 
foolhardiness.  Alyth  had  begun  the  evening  with  a 
somewhat  cynical  interest  in  the  plunge  into  life  that 
Myra  Milenberg  was  about  to  take,  the  half-impatient, 
half -pity  ing  interest  of  one  behind  the  scenes.  But 
something  about  the  girl,  possibly  her  perfect  sincerity, 
had  moved  him.  It  was  a  shame  to  let  her  walk  blind- 
fold into  St.  Claire's  arms.  And  it  was  of  St.  Claire 
she  was  thinking  as  she  looked  down  at  New  Rome — 
Alyth  knew  it  as  well  as  if  she  were  speaking  his  name. 

The  next  moment  she  was  speaking  of  him,  clearly 
enough  to  Alyth's  understanding.  "That  little,  narrow- 
minded  town  down  there,"  she  said,  evenly.  "In  the 
last  few  years  the  women  have  clubs,  and  the  men  also, 
but  not  a  reading-room  between  them.  Otherwise  it  is 
just  the  same  environment  that  turned  out  my  father 
and  mother.  It's  absolutely  material.  It  has  fifteen 
saloons  and  no  library.  A  country  all  around  that  is  fat — 
black — it  is  so  rich,  and  as  a  result  a  town  full  of  kitchens 
and  housefraus  and  thrift — just  a  continuous  worship 
of  prosperity.  The  seven  churches  are  there  just  to  make 
people  feel  more  comfortable.  .  .  .  Father  and  mother  car- 
ried the  spirit  of  it  up  to  a  city  filled  with  people  who 
were  all  scurrying  to  make  money.  Then  because  father 
is  shrewder  than  most  he  has  outstripped  them.  Because 
it's  easy  for  him  to  make  money,  and  his  pleasure  to  make 
a  showing  with  it,  we  have  become  what  we  are,  fair 
samples  of  the  nouveau  riche."  She  turned  dark  eyes  on 
Alyth.  "I  was  thinking,  as  I  sat  at  dinner  this  evening, 
that  I  could  not  remember  a  family  meal  at  which  father 
did  not  mention  money,  and  my  mother's  face  was  not 
troubled  by  the  anxieties  it  has  brought  upon  her — big 
houses,  servants,  children  going  their  own  way,  a  hus- 
band who  only  visits  his  home." 

21 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Alyth  was  silent  from  surprise. 

"Isn't  it  true,  Mr.  Alyth?" 

"Yes,  largely." 

With  a  sudden  quiver  of  passion  she  revealed  the  secret 
of  her  unrest.  "/  want  something  different!  ...  I  want 
some  of  the  beautiful  things — refinement,  tenderness, 
honesty — a  real  oneness — the  thing  that  so  often  is  left 
out  of  marriage." 

"Have  you  spoken  as  frankly  to  the  man  you  love?" 
Alyth  asked,  abruptly. 

She  caught  her  breath,  then  was  as  direct.  "  You  have 
guessed?" 

"Yes — Justin  St.  Claire.  .  .  .  Have  you  said  to  him  what 
you  have  just  said  to  me?" 

"Yes,  that  and  more." 

"Then  why  are  you  troubled?" 

Even  in  the  dim  light  he  could  see  her  face  darkened 
by  the  color  that  flooded  it.  "Because — I  am  a  coward, 
I  suppose — "  she  confessed,  finally. 

He  pushed  her  farther.  He  was  suddenly  determined; 
at  times  Alyth  had  all  of  his  hot-headed  mother's  impul- 
siveness. What  was  the  value  of  a  vital  experience  if 
not  to  point  the  way  to  the  untried?  Yet,  at  the  same 
time  that  impulse  was  thrusting  at  him,  Alyth's  cold 
judgment  was  assuring  him  that  he  was  about  to  tilt 
at  a  windmill. 

"  If  you  do  not  doubt  your  lover,  why  have  you  spoken 
as  you  have?"  Alyth  understood  perfectly  the  hurt  and 
shame  that  kept  her  silent.  "Shall  I  tell  you  why?"  he 
asked  then. 

"Yes—" 

"There  is  a  doubt  that  struggles  up  through  your 
love.  St.  Claire  has  swept  you  off  your  feet.  You  have 
known  him  only  a  short  time,  and — " 

"I  met  him  in  his  own  home  and  among  his  own  peo- 
ple," she  interrupted,  warmly.  "We  loved  each  other 

22 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

almost  at  once.  He  is  all  the  things  I  have  longed  for. 
I  think  he  asked  me  to  marry  him  on  that  very  first  even- 
ing— I  know  it  has  been  a  continuous  asking.  I  love 
him — if  I  should  tell  you  how  much  I  love  him  you  would 
not  believe  me — and  yet  I  am  frightened.  It  is  just  that 
wretched  cowardice  of  mine.  I  have  seen  so  much  that 
is  forbidding  in  marriage,  and  all  the  miserable  knowl- 
edge I  possess  rises  up  in  me  and  makes  me  a  coward.  .  .  . 
I  refused  Mr.  St.  Claire  and  came  to  mother.  I  have  been 
utterly  unhappy.  Then  he  went  to  father,  and  father 
has  brought  him  here.  ...  I  don't  know  why  I  have  talked 
to  you  in  this  way',"  she  said,  confusedly.  "  I  have  never 
in  my  life  done  such  a  thing.  I  don't  know  why  I  asked 
you  to  come  up  here.  I  don't  know  why  I  have  been  led 
into  what  must  appear  a  treachery  to  the  man  I  love — " 

"You  are  caught  in  the  current  of  desire,  and  there  is 
no  one  for  you  to  cling  to,"  Alyth  said. 

The  tears  rose  in  her  eyes.  "  Mr.  Alyth,  you  can  see — 
you  understand — father  and  mother — " 

"I  know,"  he  muttered.  "The  majority  of  parents 
show  just  as  little  sense  in  the  marrying  of  their  children. 
.  .  .  And  yet,  left  to  ourselves,  do  we  do  any  better? 
We're  all  alike,  determinedly  ignorant." 

Myra  drew  a  long  breath.  "It  has  done  me  good  to 
talk — I  don't  know  why — because  I  am  a  woman,  I  sup- 
pose." She  spoke  more  lightly,  but  Alyth  noticed  how 
tightly  her  hands  were  gripped. 

"I  want  the  blessed  relief  of  it  myself  sometimes,"  he 
confessed. 

"I  am  glad  you  do — I  feel  less  apologetic." 

"One  does  not  apologize  to  a  friend,"  Alyth  said.  "It 
has  come  about  oddly,  but  you  and  I  are  friends.  At  any 
rate,  I  know  you  will  understand  me  when  Isay  that  a 
life  experience  seems  to  me  wasted  if  it  cannot  be  passed 
along — if  it  teaches  nothing.  Most  probably  I  shall  never 
see  you  again,  yet  if  I  went  my  way  without  a  word  I 

23 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

should  be  adding  another  regret  to  my  already  pretty 
bulky  parcel  of  them.  .  .  .  It's  simply  that  you  seem  to 
me  so  terribly  young — just  as  I  was  when  I  made  my 
mistake.  .  .  .  And,  too,  you  are  situated  somewhat  as  I 
was.  I  am  certain  that  almost  ever  since  you  could  re- 
member you  have  kept  your  own  counsel.  I  have.  My 
father  was  the  kind  who,  if  he  wished  to  impress  something 
upon  his  son's  mind,  did  it  with  a  thrashing.  He  never 
advised.  My  mother  was  always  my  partisan,  though,  as 
I  soon  discovered,  she  was  too  hot-headed  and  ignorant 
an  adviser  to  be  of  any  help.  So  I  took  to  keeping  my 
own  counsel. 

"  I'm  not  given  to  talking  of  my  private  affairs,  but  pos- 
sibly there  is  a  lesson  in  it  all  for  you.  .  .  .  Even  as  a  child 
I  meant  to  get  out  of  New  Rome.  My  father  had  some 
fat  farms;  he  wanted  to  make  a  farmer  of  me.  I  was  born 
a  geologist;  I  meant  to  be  a  mining  engineer.  After  a 
deal  of  friction  I  went  to  college,  and  on  the  smallest  of 
allowances.  In  the  summer  I  surveyed,  worked  in  mills 
or  in  mining-camps.  I  didn't  see  much  of  New  Rome  in 
those  four  years. 

"After  I  graduated  I  came  home  for  a  visit.  I  had  the 
assayer's  place  at  Mill  City  offered  me,  and  I  meant  to 
keep  it  only  for  the  summer — I  had  big  plans  for  the 
future.  ...  It  was  then  I  met  the  girl  I  married.  ...  I 
was  just  twenty-two,  and  she  nineteen.  Her  father  was 
in  the  mills,  a  steady,  thrifty  man,  working  his  way  up. 
New  Rome's  attitude  to  the  mills  was  just  what  it  is  now 
— every  employee  but  the  manager,  the  assayer,  and  the 
chief  clerk  were  regarded  as  day-laborers.  I  met  Caro- 
line in  the  Center,  just  as  the  town  boys  meet  the  mill- 
girls  now,  and  walked  with  her.  The  next  night  I  rode 
with  her.  When  I  met  her  I  had  no  more  thought  of  seek- 
ing her  than  my  six-year-old  boy  has  of  marrying  his 
nurse.  When  I  took  her  to  within  a  block  of  her  home 
that  night  after  we  had  driven  up  and  down  these  hills, 

24 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

I  meant  to  marry  her  or  die.  The  fever  was  on  me;  I 
could  neither  eat  nor  sleep.  I  had  never  had  it  before — 
not  like  that." 

Myra  stirred  restlessly,  then  leaned  back,  and  to  see 
her  Alyth  had  to  sit  up. 

"And  what  was  it  all  for?  She  was  small  and  round, 
and  prettily  coquettish  in  spite  of  her  somewhat  precise 
air.  We  had  just  the  play  of  boy  with  girl — we  had  no 
conversation — it  was  an  art  she  had  never  learned,  and, 
though  I  was  not  a  stupid  boy,  I  didn't  miss  it.  I  thought 
her  'all  the  things  I  had  ever  longed  for.'  I  wanted 
her.  ...  I  was  so  hard  put  to  it  that,  had  I  loved  my 
father,  or  had  the  least  confidence  in  my  mother's  judg- 
ment, I  should  have  gone  to  them.  New  Rome  was 
the  world  to  them;  they  could  never  be  brought  to  see 
that  the  distinction  between  Mr.  Baker  and  my  father 
was  purely  an  artificial  one.  Mr.  Baker  had  really  the 
superior  capability.  He  has  risen  to  be  manager  of  the 
mills — no  easy  thing  to  do — and,  besides,  he  has  made 
money.  New  Rome's  attitude  to  him  has  changed.  And 
in  reality  Caroline  appeared  as  well  as  some  of  the  girls 
in  my  own  set.  I  was  keen-witted  enough  to  know  all 
these  things — the  only  thing  I  didn't  know  was  what 
was  the  matter  with  me,  and  just  what  actuated  her. 

"The  result  was  that  I  persuaded  Caroline  to  elope 
with  me.  I  know  that  in  so  far  as  lay  in  her,  in  no  last- 
ing or  profound  way,  she  was  involved  as  I  was.  But  in 
addition  she  possessed  a  certain  hard  sense  that  is  charac- 
teristic of  those  who  wish  to  'get  on.'  It  has  been  her 
watchword,  as  it  has  been  her  father's — the  full  scope  of 
her  inheritance.  .  .  .  Marrying  was  an  easy  matter — only 
a  few  words  before  a  magistrate — and  a  week  from  the  time 
I  had  first  seen  Caroline  we  were  man  and  wife."  He 
stopped. 

"And — ?"  Myra  breathed. 

"We  have  'gotten  on,' "  he  answered,  tonelessly.  "We 

25 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

built  on  the  foundation  upon  which  the  majority  of  mar- 
riages are  built.  Caroline  has  attained  to  the  highest 
degree  of  intelligence  possible  to  her,  and  I  am  still  going 
on.  We  don't  speak  the  same  language — in  fact,  we  never 
did,  but  that  did  not  occur  to  me;  I  didn't  realize  that 
such  things  could  be.  No  one  had  ever  presented  mar- 
riage to  me  except  from  the  standpoints  of  so-called 
'love'" — his  lip  curled — "or  worldly  advantage.  .  .  .  One 
group — I  think  your  mother  is  of  that  mind — was  excited 
over  the  'romance'  of  the  thing;  they  still  talk  of  it. 
Another  group  shook  their  heads  over  the  rash  proceed- 
ing— rash  from  the  'getting  on'  standpoint;  and  the  third 
thought  it  most  reprehensible  that  we  had  not  had  the 
church's  sanction.  They  all  entirely  missed  the  gist  of 
the  whole  matter." 

"But  I  have  not,"  Myra  said. 

"I  thought  you  would  understand — the  thing  that 
burned  me  is  scorching  you." 

She  made  no  reply. 

"Go  slow,"  Myth  said.  "Mismating  is  hell!"  He  had 
concluded  with  sudden  vehemence. 

Myra  sat  up  abruptly  and  took  the  wheel.  "Shall  we 
go  on?"  she  murmured. 

"Yes." 

They  came  out  into  the  full  moonlight,  and  went  on 
in  silence  until  they  began  the  downward  slope.  Half- 
way down,  the  road  turned  sharply  at  its  union  with 
Rock  Creek,  and  from  that  on  the  subdued  noise  of  their 
motor  was  drowned  by  the  hiss  and  splash  of  water 
finding  its  uneasy  way  over  a  rough  bed.  The  descent 
was  so  steep  that  the  machine  needed  steady  guiding, 
the  patches  of  white  moonlight  and  black  shadow  making 
a  deceptive  roadway,  so  Myra  had  an  excuse  for  silence. 
But  when  they  reached  the  valley  she  spoke. 

"I  can  only  do  the  best  I  can,"  she  said,  simply,  and  as 
if  she  had  followed  a  line  of  thought  to  its  conclusion. 

26 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Then  she  asked  the  question  that  Alyth  had  decided  he 
could  not  answer  frankly.  "Mr.  Alyth — did — did  you 
have  any  particular  reason  connected  with  Mr.  St.  Claire 
for  saying  what  you  have?" 

Alyth  had  feared  the  question.  "I  don't  want  you  to 
make  my  mistake.  Passion  is  a  poor  guide,"  he  answered, 
briefly.  He  had  gone  as  far  as  he  felt  he  could. 

"Thank  you — "  she  said,  and  they  rode  for  some  time 
in  silence.^  When  she  did  speak  again  it  was  of  other 
things,  but  to  Alyth's  sharpened  sense  each  word  was 
tinged  with  subdued  excitement. 

At  the  porte-cochere  St.  Claire  met  them,  a  tall  figure 
emerging  suddenly  from  the  dimly  lighted  hall,  and  Myra's 
well-sustained  speech  failed  her  then.  Alyth  could  feel, 
without  touching  her,  that  her  lover's  unexpected  near- 
ness had  set  her  to  quivering.  When  Alyth  offered  his 
hand  in  parting,  hers  was  burning,  and  she  stumbled  a 
little  in  her  speech,  for  St.  Claire's  look  of  determination 
was  easy  to  read.  Alyth  realized  that  St.  Claire  was  angry, 
and  with  him.  Did  St.  Claire  doubt  him,  Alyth  wondered  ? 
Hardly.  He  knew  men  and  their  code  too  well  for  that. 

Alyth  left  them  standing  together,  St.  Claire's  hand 
on  Myra's  arm. 


CHAPTER  III 

MYRA  went  up  to  her  room  and  slowly  removed  her 
bonnet.  She  was  quite  unconscious  of  what  she 
was  doing,  for  it  had  been  suggested  by  fright,  this  respite 
of  a  few  moments;  St.  Claire  was  waiting  for  her  below. 
The  time  had  come  for  a  decision — his  face  had  told  her 
so — and  she  was  not  ready  to  make  it. 

Myra  saw  vaguely  her  reflection  in  the  glass — a  face 
totally  without  color,  the  eyes  large  and  bright,  like  a 
frightened  deer's.  Since  the  night,  the  third  only  after 
the  time  of  their  first  meeting,  when  St.  Claire  had  caught 
her  and  held  her  to  him,  fear  had  been  upon  her,  fright 
and  a  throbbing  delight  so  intense  that  it  was  pain. 
Myra  was  not  of  her  mother's  generation.  She  knew  what 
the  sudden  hot  leaping  of  her  heart  against  St.  Claire's 
meant;  she  knew  what  Alyth's  warning  meant.  Was  it 
love  that  she  felt,  and  that  St.  Claire  felt,  or  the  thing 
that  faded  with  time,  that  insufficient  guarantee  for  the 
future  that  misled  so  many? 

Myra  Milenberg  had  been  born  before  her  father's 
more  strenuous  financial  struggle  had  begun.  She  had 
grown  to  twelve  years  in  a  household  that  in  its  general 
plan  differed  very  little  from  the  households  of  New  Rome, 
except  that  it  was  permeated  by  the  more  active  atmos- 
phere of  a  huge,  striving  city.  In  New  Rome  Milenberg 
had  been  partial  partner  with  his  father  in  the  Milenberg 
Bank;  in  Chicago  he  had  gone  into  brokerage.  He  had 
conned  the  city  as  a  mariner  his  chart;  he  was  alive  to 
its  big  political  and  financial  interests.  It  was  his  ambi- 

28 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

tion  to  direct  the  politician.  When  the  opportunity  came 
he  was  eager  to  shoulder  the  big  men. 

But  he  had  shown  his  hand  a  little  too  early,  and  was 
punished  for  it.  The  city  was  ripe  for  a  housecleaning, 
and  Milenberg  was  offered  up.  The  columns  of  publicity 
peppered  with  such  words  as  "grand  jury,"  "graft," 
"perjury,"  "penitentiary,"  her  mother's  shamed  and 
terrified  face,  her  father's  cool  fury  and  even  cooler 
assurance  to  her  mother  that  he  was  "a  deal  better  than 
most  of  them,"  were  things  burnt  upon  Myra's  memory. 
She  heard  then  for  the  first  time  the  expression,  "failed 
rich,"  and  applied  to  her  father.  From  her  school  com- 
panions— not  her  mother — she  had  learned  certain  other 
things — what  certain  streets,  certain  houses,  and  certain 
women  meant,  and  men's  connection  with  them.  Her 
father  had  not  escaped  that  sort  of  egg-throwing.  When 
the  turmoil  grew  turgid  she  was  taken  from  school,  and, 
as  school  meant  much  to  her,  it  fixed  things  in  her  mind. 
Even  at  that  time  she  felt  a  vague  wonder  at  her  mother 
that  grew  as  the  years  passed.  Her  mother  knew  what 
her  husband  was,  and  could  go  on! 

Milenberg  had  had  sufficient  money  and  brains  and 
steadfast  assurance  to  carry  him  through.  He  had  really 
no  sense  of  shame.  To  him  his  partial  overthrow  had 
been  simply  a  manifestation  of  superior  Might,  the  only 
God  he  worshiped.  To  Milenberg  there  were  just  two 
divisions  of  the  universe,  strength  and  weakness.  He 
had  not  been  strong  enough  to  dominate;  he  had  been 
taught  a  lesson  he  would  never  forget.  He  went  to  work 
more  shrewdly  to  buttress  his  fortune. 

Having  some  of  her  father's  alert  intellect,  Myra  under- 
stood much.  She  watched  her  mother  become  a  mere 
appendage.  She  knew,  even  before  her  mother  did,  that 
she  was  supplanted,  set  completely  aside,  her  middle 
age  before  her  to  be  lived  as  best  she  could.  That  she 
had  borne  her  husband  six  children,  stood  by  him  through 

29 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

an  ugly  storm,  sacrificing  alike  her  scruples  and  her 
comeliness  in  so  doing,  weighed  not  at  all  in  the  balance. 

When  her  mother  collapsed  under  the  revelation,  it 
was  Myra  who  had  held  her  in  her  arms.  "Why  don't 
you  leave  him — why  didn't  you  leave  him  years  ago — 
before  the  twins  came?"  the  girl  said,  between  her  teeth. 
Myra  had  a  well-spring  of  sympathy  for  the  under-dog 
in  any  struggle,  a  very  real  tenderness  for  every  creature 
hampered  by  circumstances. 

"I  can't — I  couldn't  then,"  Mrs.  Milenberg  had  whis- 
pered. "If  I  had  taken  you  two  children  and  gone,  what 
would  we  have  lived  on?  It  would  have  broken  up  the 
family.  It  was  my  duty  to  go  on.  It's  the  sort  of  thing 
women  have  to  bear.  ...  He  will  be  careful  about  out- 
siders knowing,  but  there  is  Eustace.  If  only  it  could  be 
kept  from  Eustace — such  an  example — " 

"Yes,  as  long  as  women  insist  on  bearing  it  I  suppose 
they  will  have  it  to  bear,"  Myra  had  returned,  hotly. 

She  did  not  tell  her  mother  that  Eustace  had  known 
before  any  of  them.  As  time  passed,  with  the  peculiar 
conditions  that  develop  in  such  families,  Myra  combined 
with  her  father  to  keep  from  her  mother  as  much  as  pos- 
sible of  Eustace's  doings.  Eustace  was  the  eldest,  born 
after  the  death  of  Mrs.  Milenberg's  first  two  children,  a 
handsome,  worthless  boy,  and  in  consequence  the  more 
anxiously  loved  by  his  mother.  Mrs.  Milenberg  had  no 
social  gifts — she  had  only  her  New  Rome  friends  and  some 
charitable  interests — so  her  children  were  her*  life. 

Myra  had  observed  and  understood.  She  understood 
both  her  father  and  her  mother.  Had  she  not  been  ' '  by  na- 
ture uncircumscribed"  she  would  have  been  narrowed  and 
hardened  by  her  early  contact  with  ugly  realities.  Her 
father  and  mother  had  combined  curiously  in  her.  She 
had  of  her  father  strong  passions,  a  large  indifference  to 
convention,  considerable  intellectual  force;  and  of  her 
mother,  sensitive  nerves,  a  certain  timidity,  and  an  in- 

30 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

tense  love  of  the  beautiful.  What  was  in  Mrs.  Milenberg 
a  vague  groping  after  the  ideal  was  in  Myra  a  definite 
conception.  And  being  what  she  was,  and  standing,  as 
she  was  now,  on  the  threshold  of  life's  great  experience, 
and  knowing  that  her  feet  were  bound  by  passion,  she  was 
afraid — doubtful  of  the  meaning  of  love,  afraid  of  the 
havoc  that  "all  the  miserable  knowledge"  she  pos- 
sessed might  work  in  the  future.  Afraid  of  marriage. 

And  in  her  perplexity  her  mother  had  been  unable  to 
help  her.  When  she  first  fled  from  St.  Claire's  impor- 
tunity it  was  with  a  longing  for  her  mother's  counsel. 

"He  startled  you,"  Mrs.  Milenberg  soothed,  "but  you 
love  him,  or  you  would  not  have  run  away  from  him. 
Your  father  says  there  is  not  a  woman  in  the  country 
who  wouldn't  be  proud  to  marry  Mr.  St.  Claire.  He  is 
a  fine  man.  I  should  be  glad  if  you  loved  him  enough  to 
marry  him,  Myra,  for  some  way  we  don't  seem  able  to 
give  you  just  the  right  chance.  I  suppose  I  am  not  enough 
of  a  society  woman.  It's  often  worried  me  when  I  think 
of  you  girls." 

But  Myra's  distress  had  been  too  acute  to  be  led  aside 
from  the  main  issue.  "How  do  I  know  that  I  really  love 
him?  What  do  I  really  know  of  his  mind  or  his  heart? 
Until  I  have  eaten  his  bread  and  slept  in  his  arms  will  I 
ever  know  whether  the  thing  he  feels  for  me  is  really 
love?  You  must  have  married  father  not  knowing  any- 
thing about  each  other — not  anything.  .  .  .  How  do  I  know 
that  after  a  time  things  will  not  be  as  they  have  been 
with  you?"  Her  urgent  need  and  her  mother's  inability 
to  understand  had  driven  her  to  inflict  the  hurt. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  had  grown  white  under  it.  "I  don't 
— know — Myra.  .  .  .  I've  sometimes  thought  it's  having 
so  much  money  makes  your  father  feel  he  can  do  anything 
he  likes — that  there's  nobody  can  gainsay  him,  not  even 
God.  You  remind  me  of  him  sometimes — the  free  way 
you  talk  and  think."  Troubled  though  her  daughter 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

was,  Mrs.  Milenberg  had  been  unable  to  refrain  from  re- 
buke. Myra  had  always  puzzled  her;  she  was  not  like 
herself  when  she  was  a  girl,  nor  like  any  other  girl  of  her 
girlhood  acquaintance.  Much  as  she  loved  her  daugh- 
ter, there  was  something  repellent  to  her  in  the  girl's 
freedom  of  thought. 

Her  mother  had  not  helped  her — nor,  for  that  matter, 
had  Alyth;  he  had  only  warned  her.  What  was  she  to 
do?  ...  Myra  rested  her  hands  on  the  dressing-table  and 
looked  into  her  own  eyes,  not  conscious  that  it  was  her- 
self she  was  addressing,  "No  one  can  tell  me.  ...  I  can 
learn  only  by  living — "  Then,  as  if  called  by  some  one, 
she  took  up  her  cloak  and  went  out. 

To  the  end  of  her  life  Myra  remembered  that  slow  ap- 
proach of  hers  to  St.  Claire.  He  was  waiting  at  the  stair- 
foot,  tall,  erect,  determined,  his  brilliant  eyes  fixed  on 
her,  his  dark  head  with  its  tilt  backward  thrown  into  re- 
lief by  the  golden  tint  of  the  wall  behind  him.  He  had 
something  more  than  the  impassioned  demand  of  youth; 
he  had  the  force  of  the  man  who  has  conquered  often. 
She  felt  his  power  without  realizing  its  source. 

She  came  to  him,  her  eyes  fixed  and  wide,  as  they  had 
been  when  she  looked  into  the  mirror,  and  he  put  his  hand 
on  her  then,  on  her  bare  arm.  "Let  me  take  that,"  he 
said,  softly,  indicating  her  coat  that  was  trailing  on  the 
stairs. 

Myra  looked  down.  She  did  not  know  she  had  brought 
it.  "I  do  not  need  it,"  she  said,  with  an  effort. 

"Let  us  have  it,  dear — we  are  going  down  to  the 
garden." 

He  lifted  it,  and  with  his  touch  still  on  her  arm,  led 
her  out  through  the  drawing-room.  There  was  no  one 
about;  a  collection  of  chairs  only  on  the  upper  terrace, 
upon  which  rested  splotches  of  moonlight,  as  if  at  their 
approach  every  one  had  scurried  away,  bent  upon  leav- 
ing them  alone.  Myra  had  the.  intense  longing  for  her 

32 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

mother's  presence  that  had  seized  her  when  she  had  fled 
from  St.  Claire.  But  her  mother  had  failed  her;  she  had 
not  helped  her  in  the  least,  and,  falling  back  upon  the 
necessity  that  had  brought  her  down  to  her  waiting  lover, 
she  yielded  herself  to  his  urging. 

"No,  come  down  into  the  garden — where  we  will  be 
alone,"  he  begged,  determinedly.  "I  must  talk  to  you." 

He  drew  her  down  the  steps  into  the  white  light  of  the 
garden,  to  a  bench  behind  the  hollyhocks.  He  had  chosen 
well;  they  were  hidden  from  the  house,  the  reaches  of 
the  valley  below  them,  full  in  the  moonlight,  and  quite 
alone. 

"What  is  it  that  is  so  sweet  here?"  he  asked  then,  in 
the  same  restrained  way  in  which  he  had  spoken  from  the 
beginning. 

"The  clove-pinks,"  she  answered,  indistinctly. 

He  bent  and  picked  some  of  the  blooms,  putting  them 
in  her  lap  that  his  hand  might  find  hers.  He  bent  then 
to  see  her  face.  He  was  as  white  and  tense  as  she.  To 
his  mature  experience  she  had  appeared  so  young  and 
transparent,  and,  in  spite  of  her  quick  intelligence  and 
precocious  knowledge,  a  primitive  creature.  Yet  she  had 
refused  him,  fled  from  him,  and  so  determinedly  resisted 
him. 

St.  Claire  knew  women  exceedingly  well.  In  the  long 
period  in  which  he  had  been  legally  bound,  but  in  reality 
a  bachelor,  he  had  had  turned  upon  him  woman's  complete 
battery:  sentimentality,  passion,  deliberate  calculation. 
He  was  considered,  and  knew  himself  to  be,  an  exceeding- 
ly fascinating  man  to  women,  the  more  provocatively  so 
because  of  his  anomalous  position,  and  because,  in  spite 
of  his  suggestion  of  ardor,  his  gift  for  love-making — a  gift 
so  often  allied  to  great  social  charm — he  was  only  very 
occasionally  governed  by  impulse.  He  was  not  of  a  cold 
temperament,  far  from  it,  but  from  his  boyhood  he  had 
lived  in  the  public  eye,  and  in  a  high-bred,  apparently 

33 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

philanthropic  manner,  had  catered  to  public  opinion. 
Homage  and  the  confidence  of  those  about  him  were 
absolute  necessities  to  his  well-being;  only  when  policy 
and  inclination  combined  could  he  let  himself  go  with  any 
permanent  satisfaction  to  himself. 

For  four  years  St.  Claire  had  been  free  of  his  marital 
bond.  For  purely  mercenary  reasons,  and  in  spite  of 
grave  risks,  he  had  decided  to  marry  again.  When 
driven  to  it,  St.  Claire  was  capable  of  taking  long  chances. 
He  was  not  nearly  so  rich  as  he  was  supposed  to  be.  He 
had  always  lived  extravagantly,  and  not  always  invested 
well.  He  was,  in  reality,  a  far  better  politician  than  a 
financier.  In  the  last  three  years  he  had  had  financial 
anxieties  that  had  made  him  eager  to  marry  money — or 
moneyed  influence.  And  he  wanted  to  marry  youth; 
he  preferred  not  to  subject  himself  to  the  clearer-eyed 
judgments  of  maturity. 

Myra  Milenberg  had  come  upon  him  with  a  sudden- 
ness and  definite  appeal  that  was  irresistible.  Marriage 
with  her  meant  such  immense  possibilities.  He  knew 
Milenberg;  he  had  met  the  millionaire  frequently,  and  had 
been  deeply  impressed  by  his  ability  and  financial  ramifi- 
cations. And  personally  Myra  pleased  him.  He  received 
much  the  same  impression  of  her  that  Alyth  had:  she  was 
unformed,  untried,  and  utterly  sincere.  She  had  charm 
and,  St.  Claire  thought,  the  promise  of  unusual  social 
capacity.  Because  of  his  deep-seated  contempt  for 
feminine  intelligence  St.  Claire  had  given  far  less  con- 
sideration than  Alyth  to  her  mentality.  He  knew  in- 
stantly that  he  had  attracted  her,  and  with  the  swift  sanc- 
tion of  his  judgment  he  had  played  the  impetuous  lover 
and  been  transported  by  the  part,  for  Myra  was  not  a 
woman  to  leave  a  lover  cold. 

But  St.  Claire  had  received  a  check  that,  used  as  he 
was  to  conquest,  had  aroused  all  the  combative  in  him. 
Myra  had  refused  him  in  too  definite  a  manner  to  leave 

34 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

him  at  all  hopeful.  He  was  quite  keen  enough  to  see  that 
her  shrinking  from  marriage  was  genuine.  He  had  gone 
to  Milenberg  then,  and  had  quickly  discovered  that  the 
millionaire  had  a  leaning  to  the  advantages  he  had  to 
offer.  And  yet,  and  in  spite  also  of  his  conviction  that 
Myra,  beneath  all  her  doubts  and  fears,  loved  him,  St. 
Claire  was  doubtful  of  the  outcome.  Each  conference 
with  Milenberg  left  him  the  more  tensely  eager,  and  the 
more  fearful  of  defeat,  for  Milenberg  understood  how  not 
to  sell  cheaply. 

St.  Claire  studied  Myra's  immobility  now  with  a  hot 
sense  of  very  possible  defeat.  So  long  as  a  shadow  of  a 
chance  remained  he  meant  not  to  relinquish  his  suit,  but 
with  his  inclination  to  take  chances  he  was  determined 
on  this  occasion  to  force  an  issue.  He  was  gambling  on 
the  insight  into  her  nature  he  had  gained  in  her  brief  yield- 
ing to  his  embrace.  He  spoke  steadily  and  determinedly 
enough. 

"I  am  going  to-morrow.  I  want  to  know  if  I  am  to  go 
the  happiest  man  living  or  with  things  finally  ended  be- 
tween us — heaven  opened  to  me  by  your  hand,  and  then 
shut  in  my  face?  ...  I  am  not  a  boy,  Myra — I  can't  be 
played  with." 

She  was  silent. 

"I  am  not  going  to  plead  with  you,"  St.  Claire  con- 
tinued, husky  in  his  intense  anxiety.  "I  have  offered 
every  possible  plea;  every  look  I  have  given  you  has  been 
a  plea.  I  have  heard  your  doubts  of  marriage — I  have 
given  you  a  gentleman's  assurance.  .  .  .  Are  you  going  to 
send  me  away  for  ever,  Myra?" 

It  was  her  trembling  that  brought  the  blood  of  hope 
to  his  temples.  His  grip  settled  on  her  hands,  his  arm, 
circling  her  shoulders,  lifting  her  face  to  his. 

"Myra?" 

"I  cannot  let  you  go,"  she  said. 

In  the  tremendous  relief  of  it  St.  Claire  was  incoherent. 

35 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  clasped  her  and  held  her,  his  strength  against  hers  for 
a  moment,  until  he  found  her  lips  and  kissed  her  into 
yielding,  a  sobbing  word  offered  to  his  whispered  triumph. 

"I've  won — out — "  he  said  between  his  kisses.  "I 
have  won  you — " 

Fright  had  taken  Myra's  breath  at  first — the  well-re- 
membered wish  to  escape.  Then,  as  in  their  first  embrace, 
resistance  ebbed,  and  she  was  held  close,  her  lips  fully 
his,  until  tears  choked  her. 

"I  want — to  be — happy,"  she  said,  brokenly.  "I  am 
so  tired  of — meanness — 

"You  will  be,"  he  whispered.  "Love  will  be  a  won- 
derful thing  to  you — you  slim,  wild  thing  that  won't  be 
held!  ...  I  want  you  to  marry  me  soon.  I  want  to  take 
you  into  another  life  entirely." 

"But  you  must  give  me  time,"  she  pleaded,  breathlessly. 
"Sometimes  I  know  I  love  you — and  at  others  I  am  not 
sure.  I  can't  promise  till  I  know." 

"When  my  arms  are  about  you,  you  are  sure,  dear," 
he  returned,  determinedly. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FROM  his  window  Alyth  saw  their  slow  return  up 
the  terraces,  a  dark  figure,  and  beside  it  a  spot  of 
white.  When  they  reached  the  lights  of  the  upper  ter- 
race they  were  distinct.  There  was  not  the  air  of  the  re- 
jected lover  about  St.  Claire,  nor  of  withdrawal  on  Myra's 
part.  It  was  late;  they  must  have  been  sitting  a  long 
time  in  the  garden. 

Alyth  reflected  that  he  might  have  spared  himself  the 
painful  disclosure  of  his  marital  difficulties.  What  good 
had  it  done?  There  were  few  barriers  an  infatuation 
such  as  Myra  Milenberg's  would  not  leap.  She  had  evi- 
dently cleared  her  barrier  and  grasped  the  future  in  her 
two  firm,  competent-looking  hands — shown  a  little  of  her 
father's  hard  fiber. 

Alyth  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  how  thoroughly  he 
had  been  stirred  out  of  his  usual  self-restraint.  He  had 
always  kept  a  tight  hold  upon  his  seething  dissatisfaction. 
But  to-night  he  had  fairly  gabbled  over  his  affairs.  It 
made  him  restless,  disgusted  with  himself.  The  per- 
functory call  upon  his  father-in-law  over,  he  had  walked 
the  town  up  and  down  and  across,  wherever  recollection 
directed.  Disjointed  memories  of  his  boyhood  sent  him 
to  look  at  this  spot  and  that;  in  the  moonlight  he  could 
see  even  the  irregularities  in  the  crowns  of  the  sugar-loaf 
hills  that  as  a  boy  had  tempted  him  to  long  afternoon 
rambles.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  boyhood  of  eager 
searching  after  the  great  and  satisfying  should  have  led 
to  something  more  than  his  present  state  of  unrest.  So 

37 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

far  his  business  interests  had  escaped  the  taint  of  futility; 
while  working  he  was  absorbed  enough.  But  should  in- 
terest in  his  profession  fail  him,  he  would  be  bereft  indeed. 

He  had  brought  his  thoughts  back  with  him  to  Milen- 
berg  Villa,  and  there  walked  the  floor  with  them.  And 
now  when  he  saw  the  loitering  of  the  two  on  the  terrace 
he  confessed  to  himself  that  the  cause  of  his  restlessness 
had  been  Myra  Milenberg's  young,  questioning  face.  He 
had  been  carrying  about  with  him  for  a  long  time  a  feeling 
of  pity  for  things  unnecessary,  and  the  situation  had 
touched  off  his  sympathy.  It  seemed  so  unnecessary 
that  Myra  Milenberg  be  taught  life  through  Justin  St. 
Claire.  Alyth  felt  that  he  had  done  what  he  could  to 
prevent  it;  it  remained  to  be  seen  what  she  would  do 
with  the  future  she  had  embraced.  He  must  be  off  in 
the  morning  to  meet  his  own  domestic  complications  as 
best  he  could.  .  .  .  But  he  was  sorry  for  the  girl.  It  was 
a  pity. 

Alyth  had  not  telegraphed  to  his  wife  the  exact  time 
of  his  arrival.  "Am  well.  Arrive  Monday,"  was  his  mes- 
sage sent  en  route.  From  New  Rome  he  had  previously 
telegraphed,  "Day  in  New  Rome — at  Milenberg's." 

The  last  few  years  had  been  punctuated  by  telegraphic 
messages  that  had  grown  briefer  as  time  passed.  Now, 
almost  every  time  Alyth  hesitated  over  a  telegraph  blank, 
with  the  uncomfortable  feeling  that  he  ought  at  least  to 
fill  out  ten  words,  he  fell  back  on  the  conviction  that  all 
Caroline's  well-being  required  was  the  frequent  assurance 
that  the  source  of  supply  was  not  likely  to  be  cut  off  by 
any  untoward  circumstance.  And  in  its  train  always 
came  the  reflection  that  he  carried  an  extravagant  life 
insurance.  That  would  be  a  consolation  if  a  telegram 
happened  to  miscarry. 

There  also  frequently  recurred  to  him  a  remark  he  had 
once  heard  a  mining-man  make:  "When  a  man  stops 
writing  to  his  wife  and  takes  to  the  ticker,  look  out! 

38 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

When  he  can't  fill  out  ten  words  he's  a  sure  goner." 
Alyth's  message  from  New  Rome  had  varied  from  the 
usual  formula,  because  he  knew  that  to  Caroline,  with 
her  intense  regard  for  money,  the  fact  of  his  being  Milen- 
berg's  guest  would  be  a  real  satisfaction. 

Usually  when  Alyth  reached  his  office  after  a  journey 
he  called  up  his  house  to  say  whether  or  not  he  would 
get  out  to  dinner;  Caroline  liked  to  be  notified.  This 
morning  he  was  prompt.  He  telephoned  even  before 
opening  his  mail.  The  thought  of  his  family  had  hung 
heavy  on  his  mind  throughout  the  journey. 

It  was  his  wife's  carrying  voice  that  answered,  "Oh — 
you're  back,  are  you,  George?" 

"Yes.  How  are  you,  and  how  are  the  boys?"  Alyth 
asked. 

"We're  all  right  now.  Dick  hasn't  been  well.  I  had 
to  take  him  to  the  doctor — "  And  she  added  a  detail 
that  made  Alyth  wince.  Why  intrust  such  things  to  the 
telephone?  She  was  constantly  rasping  the  fastidious  in 
him. 

"I  shall  be  out  for  dinner.  It  will  be  good  to  see  you 
all — and  the  garden — after  that  hot  journey,"  he  said, 
somewhat  awkwardly. 

"Well, -there  is  a  cook  coming  this  afternoon,  so  it's  all 
right.  Hulda  left  on  Thursday  without  a  day's  notice, 
and  I've  had  trouble  enough  getting  some  one  else.  Then, 
of  course,  Alice  had  to  go  and  hurt  her  back  to-day,  so 
I've  had  the  boys  on  my  hands. . . .  Oh !  and  now  I  think  of 
it — will  you  call  up  Sophie  Ball  for  me,  George,  and  ask 
her  to  come  out  for  a  few  days — until  Alice  comes  back? 
She's  expensive,  but  I  have  to  have  somebody.  This 
eternal  trouble  with  servants  will  drive  me  mad  in  the 
end.  I—" 

"What  is  Sophie's  number?"  Alyth  interrupted,  for 
his  wife's  breath  had  begun  to  come  short.  From  per- 
petual reiteration  he  was  familiar  with  the  subject.  Caro- 

39 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

line  was  evidently  too  bothered  over  household  affairs 
even  to  remember  that  he  had  very  recently  seen  her 
father. 

She  gave  the  number  and  rang  off  with  a  hasty  injunc- 
tion not  to  forget.  "We  might  as  well  save  that  long- 
distance call,"  she  remarked. 

Alyth  swung  the  telephone  aside  with  an  expressive 
motion — as  if  there  were  other  things  he  would  like  to 
fling  after  it.  He  sat  for  a  few  moments  fingering  his 
mail.  With  his  mind's  eye  he  could  see  Caroline  per- 
fectly as  she  had  hurried  with  short  steps  to  the  tele- 
phone, seating  herself  solidly,  knees  well  apart,  a  thick- 
set little  figure  rapidly  growing  stout.  His  return  meant 
nothing  to  her — an  added  anxiety  over  dinner,  perhaps. 
He  was  simply  part  of  the  usual  order  of  things — part  of 
the  business  of  life. 

That  was  the  trouble  with  Caroline,  Alyth  reflected. 
Or  rather  it  was  the  thing  about  her  that  appeared  un- 
changeable, unsurmountable.  She  looked  upon  life  and 
its  various  relations  much  as  a  man  did  upon  his  busi- 
ness, but  not  with  the  thrill  he  himself  sometimes  felt 
over  accomplishment,  for  it  was  not  in  Caroline  to  be 
thrilled;  and  not  with  the  gambler's  excitement,  for  she 
was  incapable  of  taking  chances;  but  with  the  worrying 
persistence  of  the  groceryman,  or  the  butcher,  who,  if 
given  time,  will  amass  a  considerable  fortune.  What  was 
it  Myra  Milenberg  had  said?  "We  are  so  exasperatingly 
ordinary!"  That  was  what  Caroline  was  —  ordinary, 
sordid,  and  to  Alyth's  desire  for  something  very  different 
— exasperatingly  so. 

Alyth  had  certain  clearly  defined  complaints  against 
his  wife.  Her  very  average  intelligence  he  must  forgive. 
It  was  her  birthright,  part  of  her  when  he  married  her. 
He  constantly  declared  to  himself  that,  had  it  been  coun- 
terbalanced by  an  affectionate  nature  and  a  fair  amount 
of  mental  elasticity,  some  capacity  to  progress,  he  would 

40 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

not  complain.  But  Caroline  had  not  progressed  an  inch 
in  all  the  years  he  had  known  her.  She  had  simply  parted 
with  the  effervescence  of  youth,  solidified. 

And  there  was  the  other  complaint.  Under  all  his 
surface  restraint  Alyth  was  passionate.  Or  rather,  he 
had  an  ardent  temperament  counterbalanced  by  a  strong 
will.  He  was  thirty,  and  with  a  temperate  youth  behind 
him.  At  twenty-eight  Caroline  had  the  indifference  of 
middle  age.  Apparently  the  first  years  of  marriage  had 
drawn  too  much  on  her  small  reserve  of  both  sentiment 
and  passion,  and  the  coming  of  their  two  children  in  the 
first  four  years  of  their  marriage  had  completely  exhausted 
the  supply. 

Alyth  considered  her  wanting  in  more  ways  than  one. 
She  did  not  love  children.  Hers  had  come  under  protest, 
the  monetary  consideration  being  always  uppermost  with 
her.  "We  can't  afford  children  and  get  on,"  she  had 
always  declared.  She  wanted  no  more  children,  nor  did 
Alyth  when  he  saw  how  the  two  they  had  wore  upon  her. 
They  usurped  what  little  warmth  she  possessed.  She 
had  the  primal  instinct  to  protect  and  cherish  her  off- 
spring, and  a  strong  sense  of  possession  as  well  as  the 
more  modern  carping  anxiety  over  the  future  financial 
welfare  of  her  boys;  but  apparently  she  had  none  of  the 
exquisite  joys  of  motherhood. 

Alyth  often  realized  that  theirs  was  one  of  those  unions 
in  which  children  are  a  discordant  element.  The  con- 
stant attending  to  their  needs  bred  in  Caroline  a  more 
continual  thought  of  money,  an  irritation  over  added 
expense.  She  was  in  chronic  distress  over  money,  and 
without  reason,  Alyth  thought.  On  the  occasion  when 
Alyth,  inspired  by  her  eagerness  to  become  rich,  had 
risked  his  small  fortune  in  Wall  Street  and  lost,  she  had 
shown  a  frantic  terror  that  had  almost  deprived  her  of 
her  reason. 

And  in  him  the  paternal  was  not  superabundantly 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

developed.  He  had  the  average  man's  love  for  his  chil- 
dren, the  usual  sense  of  duty  and  responsibility.  Chil- 
dren could  not  take  the  place  of  the  things  that  Alyth 
wanted,  and  that  Myra  Milenberg  in  her  eager  speech 
had  defined  better  than  he  had  ever  attempted  to  define 
them  for  himself.  "I  want  something  different!  ...  I 
want  some  of  the  beautiful  things — refinement,  tender- 
ness, honesty — a  real  oneness,  the  thing  that  is  so  often 
left  out  of  marriage." 

It  was  certainly  lacking  in  his  marriage,  Alyth  reflected. 
He  was  not  going  home  to  that  atmosphere. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  sundown  when  Alyth  alighted  at  Manor  Park, 
and  after  a  glance  at  the  line  of  waiting  automo- 
biles started  up  the  short  street  that  brought  him  to 
Manor  Park  Place.  He  had  not  expected  Caroline  to 
send  for  him;  she  knew  that  when  not  hurried  he  pre- 
ferred to  walk.  In  good  weather  it  was  a  pleasant  walk 
of  about  a  mile,  tempting  to  any  one  as  addicted  to  ex- 
ercise as  Alyth.  It  and  his  garden  recompensed  him  for 
the  inconvenience  of  a  suburban  residence,  though  of 
the  many  New  York  suburbs  Manor  Park  was  one  of 
the  most  attractive.  Even  the  streets  leading  up  to  Park 
Place  were  beautified  by  attractive  homes.  The  Place 
itself  had  pretentious  stone  gateways,  and  because  of  its 
central  strip  of  shrubs,  flowers,  and  trees,  wide  drive- 
ways and  spacious  lawns,  appeared  really  like  a  park. 
Almost  its  entire  length  commanded  a  view  of  the  Sound. 

Alyth's  home  was  larger  and  newer  than  some  of  its 
neighbors,  built  evidently  with  an  eye  to  effect,  winged 
by  porches,  and  with  an  outlook  over  the  Sound.  In  its 
rear  was  a  garden,  which,  because  of  a  natural  irregularity 
in  the  ground,  was  really  artistic.  It  was  the  only  thing 
about  his  home  that  Alyth  liked;  the  house  was  too 
large  and  ornate  for  his  taste  and  his  income,  and  had 
been  Caroline's  choice. 

"We  can  sell  when  we  want  to,"  she  had  insisted,  "and 
in  the  mean  time  we  have  a  handsome  house  to  live  in. 
It  will  bring  you  in  business,  having  a  showy  house 
— 'there's  nothing  succeeds  like  success,'  George."  From 

4  43 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

the  standpoint  of  business  "hustle"  Caroline  was  probably 
right,  but  Alyth  took  little  satisfaction  in  the  house 
they  built. 

Though  the  gloaming  made  it  dim,  Alyth  rounded 
the  house  that  he  might  see  the  garden  before  going  in. 
It  had  grown  into  a  habit,  this  stopping  to  collect  a  pleas- 
ing impression,  a  sort  of  arming  himself  for  an  encoun- 
ter with  disagreeables.  He  went  in  by  the  side  entrance, 
passed  through  the  drawing-room  of  which  the  Milen- 
berg's  had  been  a  reminder,  and,  crossing  the  hall,  entered 
the  dining-room.  Alyth  expected  to  find  the  family  at 
table,  for,  as  usual,  he  had  been  delayed  at  the  office. 

He  was  right;  they  had  nearly  finished  dinner.  It 
was  Jack  who  saw  him  first. 

"Here's  father,"  he  announced,  practically. 

Caroline  was  busied  with  Dick,  who  sat  beside  her, 
and  did  not  turn  at  once,  not  until  she  had  finished  wip- 
ing the  boy's  fingers.  He  had  reached  that  stage  when, 
hunger  satisfied,  he  was  playing  with  his  food. 

"If  you  don't  eat  your  dinner  and  stop  playing  with 
it,  I  shall  whip  you!"  she  was  saying,  sharply,  as  Alyth 
paused  at  her  chair. 

"I  want  to  go  to  father!"  Dick  cried,  squirming. 

"You'll  sit  here  until  I  tell  you  you  can  get  down. 
You'll  mind  when  I  speak  to  you,  Dick,  or  I  shall  take 
you  up  and  put  you  to  bed  in  the  dark,  and  let  Jack  sit 
up  as  long  as  he  wants  to.  You've  been  bad  all  day—-- 
a  bad  boy!"  Then,  feeling  Alyth's  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
she  turned  her  cheek  to  his  kiss.  "What  made  you  so 
late,  George?"  She  barely  glanced  at  him,  for  Dick  had 
almost  squirmed  himself  out  of  his  high-chair,  and  she 
needed  both  hands  to  hold  him.  "You  sit  still  as  I  told 
you!"  she  commanded. 

As  frequently  before,  Alyth  stood  and  watched  the 
struggle  between  Caroline  and  her  son.  "I  won't!"  the 
boy  was  saying  through  his  teeth.  ,  "I've  got  a  right  to 

44 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

get  down  if  I  want  to!"  Then  as  he  felt  his  mother's 
grip  on  him,  her  superior  strength  matched  against  his 
own,  he  screamed  with  rage.  She  loosed  her  hold  enough 
to  slap  him  soundly,  her  face  as  crimson  as  his  own,  then 
held  him  down  firmly  in  his  seat,  in  spite  of  his  struggles 
and  wild  screams.  She  held  him  until  he  relaxed  enough 
for  her  to  pull  him  out  of  his  chair  and  carry  him  off, 
shrieking,  his  purple  face  showing  over  her  shoulder  as 
she  disappeared  in  the  hall.  Presently  the  struggle  went 
on  overhead — Caroline  fulfilling  her  threat. 

Alyth  had  gone  around  the  table  to  his  place,  and  sat 
without  eating,  his  look  cold.  He  had  made  no  motion 
to  interfere,  no  remark  of  any  kind.  When  Jack  was  a 
baby  there  had  been  times  when  Alyth  had  objected  to 
Caroline's  methods,  but  he  had  long  since  learned  the 
wisdom  of  silence.  Caroline  would  brook  no  interference, 
and  Alyth's  own  common  sense  had  told  him  that  even 
faulty  methods  were  preferable  to  divergent  ones. 

"That's  the  second  whipping  Dick's  had  to-day," 
Jack  remarked,  in  his  practical  way.  He  was  taking  ad- 
vantage of  his  mother's  absence  to  capture  the  sugar- 
bowl.  He  was  a  stockily  built  child  of  eight,  regular- 
featured,  and  fair  like  his  mother.  As  soon  as  his  mother's 
back  was  turned  he  had  appropriated  the  edibles  she  had 
refused  him.  He  did  it  in  a  business-like  way,  and  quite 
openly.  Alyth  had  always  noticed  that  his  eldest  son 
knew  exactly  what  he  wanted,  and  got  it  without  scream- 
ing for  it;  a  less  nervous  and  imaginative  child  than  Dick. 

"Dick's  been  ill,  hasn't  he?"  Alyth  asked. 

"He  was  pretty  sick  for  two  days.  .  .  .  Father,  will  you 
please  pass  me  the  cake?"  The  boy  had  an  oddly  grown- 
up way  of  speaking. 

Alyth  suspected.  "Did  your  mother  tell  you  not  to 
eat  cake?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  but  that  was  just  because  Dick's  been  sick. 
That's  no  reason  I  shouldn't  eat  cake."  The  boy  ex- 

45 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

pressed  himself  politely.  Alyth  had  always  demanded 
politeness  of  his  boys,  and  was  polite  to  them  in  return. 

"Your  mother  probably  had  good  reasons  for  forbid- 
ding you  cake,  sir." 

"But  I  am  not  Dick,"  Jack  persisted. 

Alyth  only  looked  at  his  son,  a  steady  look  from  be- 
tween drawn  brows,  and  the  boy  subsided.  Alyth  had 
taken  nothing  to  eat,  and  the  maid  was  now  offering  him 
something.  He  glanced  up  at  her.  He  had  never  seen 
her  before;  a  new  maid,  evidently.  It  seemed  to  Alyth 
that  every  time  he  entered  the  house  he  encountered  a 
strange  face.  It  was  one  of  the  things  that  robbed  the 
place  of  homelikeness.  He  felt  a  certain  sense  of  shame 
at  a  stranger's  being  witness  to  the  family  disunion. 

Jack  had  finished,  and  essayed  conversation.  "Did 
you  go  down  in  the  miner.,  father?" 

"Yes,"  said  Alyth. 

"Did  they  give  you  a  lot  of  money  for  going?" 

The  question  recalled  something  to  Alyth's  mind.  He 
brought  out  from  his  pocket  some  specimens  of  gold 
quartz.  "I  picked  these  up  for  you  and  Dick,"  he  said. 
"You  see  the  gold?  I'll  bring  some  other  specimens  from 
the  office  if  you  will  remind  me,  and  tell  you  about  them 
— the  sort  of  places  where  they  are  found." 

The  boy  examined  them  eagerly.  "What  would  they 
sell  for?"  he  asked. 

Alyth  studied  him  for  a  moment.  "For  very  little," 
he  replied. 

"Oh,"  Jack  said,  in  a  disappointed  way.  He  turned 
the  specimens  over  once  or  twice,  thoughtfully.  "I  guess 
I  could  trade  them  pretty  well,  though,"  he  remarked. 
"Any  boy  who  didn't  know  would  think  they  were  worth 
a  lot." 

"One  of  them  belongs  to  your  brother,"  Alyth  said, 
dryly. 

"I'll  make  the  trade  for  him,"  Jack  returned,  capably. 

46 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Alyth  said  no  more.  The  boy  was  very  like  Caroline, 
and  with  the  training  he  was  receiving  it  was  little  won- 
der that  at  eight  his  mind  ran  on  selling  and  trading. 
His  mother  knew  the  value  of  every  piece  of  property  in 
Manor  Park.  She  was  constantly  talking-  of  selling  the 
house  they  were  in,  or  of  trading  it,  or  of  what  their 
neighbors  were  doing  with  their  property;  of  rise  and 
decrease  in  value.  She  read  the  market  reports  every 
day,  and  commented  on  them — at  breakfast,  usually. 
The  boy  had  his  grandfather  Baker's  solid  business  sense 
as  well  as  his  features,  and  to  counterbalance  it  his  im- 
agination needed  stimulation;  instead  of  that  he  was 
being  given  a  sordid  outlook  upon  life. 

Alyth  had  finished  almost  as  soon  as  Jack,  for  the  com- 
motion up-stairs  took  what  little  appetite  he  had.  "  Come 
out  into  the  garden  with  me,"  he  said. 

Jack  put  his  hand  in  his  father's,  and  the  two  went 
out  into  the  twilight.  Moved  by  the  sense  of  duty  that 
had  been  warring  so  long  with  dissatisfaction,  Alyth,  as 
they  walked  up  and  down,  began  talking  about  the  des- 
ert, the  tropics,  the  land  of  perpetual  snows,  deliberately 
trying  to  stir  the  child's  imagination.  It  was  Dick,  usu- 
ally, who  asked  for  "a  story."  Jack  rarely  asked  for  one, 
though  when  one  was  in  the  telling  he  took  an  intelligent 
interest. 

An  hour  later,  when  Caroline  came  down-stairs  she  found 
them  on  the  porch,  Jack  on  his  father's  knee.  "You 
must  come  now,  Jack,"  she  said. 

"You  said  I  could  sit  up  as  long  as  I  liked,"  Jack  ob- 
jected, instantly.  "I  don't  want  to  go  yet." 

Caroline's  patience  was  worn  rather  threadbare.  It 
was  a  warm  night  and  she  was  tired.  She  tired  easily, 
for  in  spite  of  her  robust  appearance  she  was  not  strong. 
She  took  no  exercise  in  the  open  air;  her  house  kept  her 
too  busy,  she  declared;  she  had  no  time  even  to  walk  in 
the  garden.  This  evening  she  was  more  than  usually 

47 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

weary,  for  it  had  taken  Dick  so  long  to  sob  himself  into 
quiet. 

"  Don't  be  foolish!"  she  said,  sharply.  " I  didn't  mean 
that  you  could  sit  up  all  night.  Come  with  me  now!" 

"You  said  I  could  sit  up,"  Jack  persisted,  stubbornly. 
"Didn't  she  say  so,  father?" 

Alyth  wanted  to  say  that  if  the  boy  were  allowed  to 
remain  a  little  longer  he  would  carry  him  up  and  put  him 
to  bed,  but  that  would  be  contrary  to  the  rule  he  had  fol- 
lowed. As  Caroline  had  charge  of  the  children,  he  had 
no  right  to  undermine  her  authority;  he  could  not  take 
her  place. 

"It's  after  your  usual  bedtime,  and  your  mother  is 
tired.  You  are  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  keep  her  stand- 
ing around  waiting  for  you.  Go  off  now,  and  get  to 
sleep  as  soon  as  you  can.  If  you  want  to  talk  to  me, 
come  into  my  room  to-morrow  morning  when  I  am 
dressing." 

Jack  hesitated,  then  went.  Though  only  eight,  he  had 
begun  to  do  his  own  thinking.  It  was  useless  to  rebel 
against  his  mother's  arbitrary  rule.  It  was  much  easier 
to  do  a  little  calculating,  and,  when  possible,  circumvent 
her.  He  had  counted  much  upon  her  unintentional  per- 
mission, but  a  morning  visit  with  his  father  appeared 
attractive.  With  Dick  the  appeal  to  his  gentlemanly 
consideration  would  have  had  the  most  weight.  He  evi- 
dently gave  his  mother  no  trouble,  for  she  returned  very 
soon. 

Alyth  went  into  the  drawing-room  to  get  a  chair  for 
her,  bringing  it  out  before  she  knew  what  he  was  about — 
a  low-seated  rocker  that  she  liked  because  it  did  not  lift 
her  feet  from  the  floor.  When  she  realized  what  he  was 
doing  she  stopped  him  promptly. 

"Don't  bring  that  out  on  the  porch,  George;  it's  one 
of  the  best  chairs!  How  long  do  you  suppose  I  could 
keep  the  parlor-set  looking  decent  if  I  let  the  chairs  be 

48 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

dragged  out  here  in  the  evenings?  We  can't  afford  to 
use  mahogany  for  the  porch." 

"As  you  like,"  Alyth  returned,  his  voice  at  its  driest. 
"I  had  supposed  we  could  afford  to  be  comfortable." 

He  took  the  chair  back,  hot  meantime  with  the  irrita- 
tion she  so  frequently  aroused  in  him.  What  was  the  use 
of  trying  to  adapt  oneself  to  a  nature  such  as  hers?  It 
was  utterly  impossible  to  change  her  in  any  way  whatever, 
and  he  was  a  fool  even  to  think  of  it.  Why  not  simply 
provide  for  his  family  and  then  put  them  out  of  his  mind? 
Even  when  in  New  York  he  could  gain  evening  after 
evening  away  from  home,  the  entire  night  if  he  wanted 
it.  "Business"  was  always  a  sufficient  excuse  to  Caro- 
line, the  prospect  of  winning  a  few  extra  dollars  outweigh- 
ing any  satisfaction  she  might  take  in  his  presence. 

Alyth  almost  gave  up  the  idea  he  had  been  pondering 
for  a  long  time.  He  had  come  home  with  the  intention 
of  talking  to  his  wife.  Even  if  he  had  to  brave  a  scene, 
he  meant  to  put  some  things  to  her  plainly — convince  her, 
if  possible.  She  seemed  to  him  at  that  moment  about  as 
impressible  as  a  block  of  granite. 

But  he  conquered  his  anger,  as  he  had  many  times  be- 
fore. He  walked  the  porch,  his  habit  when  no  one  was 
about,  stopping  occasionally  to  look  at  the  trail  of  moon- 
light on  the  Sound.  He  was  wondering  how  best  to  begin 
what  he  had  to  say,  when  Caroline's  voice,  made  hard  by 
suppressed  irritation,  prodded  him  again. 

"George,  do  you  have  to  walk  up  and  down  like  that? 
It  makes  me  nervous.  I  hear  you  clear  up-stairs  some- 
times." 

Alyth  seated  himself  on  the  porch-rail  and  looked  at 
her.  He  could  see  her  features  quite  plainly,  for  she  sat 
within  the  reach  of  the  moonlight.  It  was  kinder  to  her 
than  the  electric  light  or  daylight,  for  it  did  not  reveal 
the  down  on  her  cheeks  or  emphasize  her  double  chin. 
It  showed  her  blond  and  regular-featured,  with  a  contour 

49 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

beginning  to  be  coarsened  by  too  much  flesh.  She  had 
reached  the  Shetland-pony  stage,  the  too  compact,  thick- 
bodied  condition  that  in  many  small  women  precedes  an 
unwieldy  accumulation  of  flesh.  Caroline  was  still  a 
well-favored  woman,  however,  for  she  had  been  a  very 
pretty  girl,  petite,  rounded,  and  fair.  It  was  evident 
that  to-night  she  was  tired  out,  the  weariness  that  comes 
with  worriment.  It  showed  itself  in  sharpened  speech, 
the  sagging  of  the  muscles  about  her  mouth,  a  lack  of 
color.  Alyth  sat  considering  her,  and  withheld  his  re- 
tort. 

She  went  on  to  another  subject,  apparently  quite  un- 
conscious that  she  had  spoken  to  him  with  all  the  im- 
patience with  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  reproving 
the  boys;  obtuseness  in  certain  directions  was  char- 
acteristic of  Caroline. 

"How  was  father?"  she  asked.  "You  didn't  tell  me 
when  you  telephoned." 

"Not  well,"  Alyth  answered,  collectedly. 

"His  heart  again,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes;  he  seemed  depressed  about  himself." 

"Poor  father!"  she  said,  more  softly,  and  fell  into 
thought.  It  was  some  little  time  before  she  asked, 
"What  do  you  suppose  father  is  worth,  George?" 

"About  seventy-five  thousand."  Alyth's  tones  were 
dry. 

"I  suppose  he  must  be,"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 

Alyth's  sense  of  humor  was  stirred.  He  knew  that 
Caroline  loved  her  father  next,  certainly,  to  her  children; 
but  she  had  so  quickly  bridged  the  interval  between  her 
very  sincere  "Poor  father!"  and  the  question  that  fol- 
lowed. She  was  thinking  now,  intently,  about  what 
might  be  the  safest  and  best  way  to  invest  seventy-five 
thousand  dollars,  should  it  suddenly  come  into  her  hands. 
He  knew  that  she  was  feeling  a  fervor  of  gratitude  over 
the  fact  that  she  was  an  only  child  and  that  her  father 

So 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

had  remained  a  widower.  Alyth  was  gifted  with  toler- 
ance, so,  notwithstanding  his  feeling  of  half-contemptuous 
amusement,  he  was  glad  that  Caroline's  life  contained 
that  satisfaction.  She  had  an  attractive  inheritance  to 
consider.  Did  it  rest  her  small  brain  much,  he  wondered? 

The  next  moment  he  was  shown  that  to  those  possessed 
as  Caroline  was  there  can  be  no  rest. 

"If  you'd  only  kept  away  from  Wall  Street!"  she  said, 
with  a  sigh.  "You  threw  away  almost  as  much  as  that." 

Alyth's  face  flamed.  The  sting  had  followed  too  quick- 
ly upon  amusement.  He  understood  in  that  one  hot 
moment  why  occasionally  a  man  for  no  apparent  reason 
vanishes,  leaving  his  wife  to  the  mercy  of  the  world.  It 
was  gone  in  a  moment,  but  it  had  suddenly  stiffened  him 
to  his  task. 

"I  have  a  good  deal  more  than  twice  seventy-five 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  capacity  in  me,"  he  returned, 
quietly,  "but  I  may  not  be  able  to  use  it — if  things  go 
on  as  they  are." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  She  sat  up  straight,  trying  to 
see  his  face  more  distinctly.  It  was  his  manner  of  speak- 
ing that  had  galvanized  her. 

"This  house — our  whole  way  of  living  wears  on  me.  I 
can't  go  on  with  it." 

She  peered  at  him  anxiously.  "What  is  the  matter, 
George?  Have  you  been  sick,  and  not  told  me?" 

"No,  I  have  not  been  ill." 

"You  have  lost  money,  then!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
touch  of  the  frantic  anxiety  he  remembered  so  well. 

"No,  I  have  not  lost  money;  I  am  making  it.  I  am 
considered  one  of  the  best  mining  experts  in  the  country, 
and  I  am  only  thirty-two." 

"Then  you've  not  been  speculating  again?" 

"No,  certainly  not." 

She  dropped  back  in  her  chair. 

"But  I'm  in  a  bad  way,  just  the  same,"  Alyth  main- 
Si 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

tained.  "There  are  other  things  that  can  kill  ambition 
and  earning  capacity  in  a  man  aside  from  ill-health  and 
loss  of  money.  They  have  not  been  killed  in  me  yet, 
but  I  believe  they  will  be  in  time — just  as  surely  as  you 
are  losing  your  youth.  .  .  .  And  the  whole  trouble  is  the 
way  we  live — the  way  we  insist  on  thinking — you,  in  par- 
ticular. It's  a  man's  thoughts  make  him.  It's  aged  me, 
tired  me  out  in  spirit.  And  what  has  it  done  to  you? 
Your  face  and  your  voice  tell  the  story.  One  can't  shunt 
love,  Caroline,  and  carp  over  money  year  in  and  year  out 
without  its  showing  in  one's  face.  In  your  eagerness  to 
'get  on'  you  don't  even  live  healthfully.  Built  as  you 
are,  it's  been  an  outrage  both  to  yourself  and  to  me  to 
take  no  exercise  except  the  worrying  around  the  house 
you  have  to  do  because,  with  our  income,  we  can't  keep 
servants  enough  to  run  the  place  properly.  Yet  you  in- 
sist on  our  having  a  car  and  a  chauffeur,  more  to  impress 
the  people  we  know  than  for  any  actual  comfort  we  take 
in  it.  The  only  real  diversion  you  get  is  two  or  three  card- 
parties  a  week.  .  .  .  We're  living  so  senselessly  that  it's 
abominable!" 

Alyth  had  deliberately  assailed  what  little  vanity 
Caroline  possessed.  Whatever  the  result,  he  meant  to 
pierce  her  imperviousness.  It  was  his  conviction  that 
nothing  else  than  a  dagger-point — or  the  loss  of  money — 
would  stir  her. 

"If  I've  grown  old  worrying,  it's  because  I've  wanted 
you  to  do  well  and  get  on,"  she  retorted,  hotly.  "It  al- 
most killed  me  when  you  lost  our  money.  I  work  from 
morning  till  night  trying  to  keep  up  this  house  and  look 
after  the  boys,  and  then  you — "  She  lost  her  voice. 

"Yes,"  Alyth  continued,  with  the  air  of  one  who  ham- 
mers upon  a  nail  that  has  struck  an  obstruction,  "I  have 
just  said  that  is  what  you  do,  and  that  I  see  no  necessity 
for  it.  You  make  yourself  miserable,  and  keep  me  in  a 
constant  state  of  irritation,  all  because  of  your  determina- 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

tion  to  'get  on.'  It's  senseless,  and  I  decline  to  go  on 
with  it." 

"How  else  are  we  to  live?"  she  demanded.  "We  have 
the  two  boys  to  provide  for.  Are  we  just  to  sit  still  and 
stay  poor?  ...  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  saying 
that  you  won't  go  on  as  you  are." 

Anxiety  was  sharpening  her  irritation  now.  The  hurt 
to  her  vanity  was  nothing  to  the  searing-iron  of  anxiety. 
Caroline  had  a  deep-seated  conviction  that  Alyth  was  not 
an  astute  business  man.  To  her  ignorance  his  one  finan- 
cial overthrow  was  certain  proof  of  it.  His  constant  im- 
patience over  her  determination  to  turn  an  enviably 
prosperous  face  to  the  world,  on  one  hand,  and  her  penny- 
saving  propensity,  on  the  other,  convinced  her  that  Alyth 
had  no  worldly  wisdom.  To  her  narrowly  ordered  mind 
his  attitude  toward  life  indicated  a  certain  irresponsi- 
bility, a  dangerous  quality  that  she  had  always  combated. 
She  was  alarmed.  What  impractical  thing  was  he  con- 
sidering now?  She  was  up  in  arms  to  protect  the  law  of 
her  being,  a  certain  painful,  plodding  acquisitiveness. 

"I'll  explain  what  I  mean.  .  .  .  Just  consider  my  day 
for  a  moment — as  I  see  it — not  as  you  do.  When  I'm  here 
I  get  into  town  by  nine  o'clock.  So  far  my  days  have 
interested  me.  It's  come  to  be  the  only  thing  in  my  life 
that  does  interest  me — my  business,  and  not  because  I 
make  money  out  of  it,  simply  because  it's  my  most  natural 
form  of  self-expression.  There's  always  been  a  joy  in  it 
that  I  have  carefully  guarded  from  the  mere  money- 
getting  spirit.  But  I  have  to  hear  about  money,  and 
think  about  it;  it's  connected  with  everything  a  man 
does;  the  universe  appears  to  hinge  on  it;  so  liind  it  diffi- 
cult enough  to  keep  separate  my  joy  in  working  from  the 
usual  craving  to  make  money.  To  my  mind  a  man's 
home  should  be  the  place  in  which  he  refreshes  his  spirit. 

"Well,  I  come  back  here.  The  moment  I  look  at  this 
house  I  see  the  unpaid  balance  on  it.  It  doesn't  worry  me 

53 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

in  the  way  it  does  you,  for  I  know  I  can  pay  for  it  many 
times  over,  but  the  place  does  not  mean  home  to  me. 
In  your  own  words,  it's  an  investment!  It's  no  home! 
This  place  that  you  are  fretting  yourself  into  a  middle- 
aged  woman  over,  that  the  boys  don't  dare  scratch,  that 
I  don't  dare  to  be  comfortable  in,  that  to  the  first  bidder 
— that  bids  enough — we'll  sell  'furnished  as  it  stands' — 
this  big,  imposing  house  hasn't  even  the  stability  of  an 
Arab's  tent,  for  that  he  furls  and  takes  with  him.  .  .  .  It's 
not  the  way  to  live,  Caroline." 

She  had  cooled  into  anxious  opposition.  "But  every 
one  does  it,  George.  It's  a  way  of  making  money  and 
living  in  a  nice  house  at  the  same  time.  I'm  willing  to 
take  the  bother  of  it  if  we  can  make  a  little  money." 

"Good  God!"  Alyth  said  in  sudden  exasperation.  "I 
seem  to  be  talking  at  a  stone  wall!  Of  course  people  do 
it!  That's  one  reason  there  are  so  few  homes,  or  any 
sort  of  home  feeling!  We've  commercialized  even  our 
homes.  .  .  .  And  don't  you  see,  Caroline,  that  you  are  the 
crux  of  the  whole  matter — that  what  the  home  is  de- 
pends on  you?  Can't  you  understand  that  what  I  want 
to  do  away  with  is  just  this  everlasting  worry  of  yours 
over  money? ...  If  it's  a  possible  thing,  I'd  like  to  change 
your  whole  outlook  upon  life.  That's  probably  an  im- 
possibility, but  I  do  know  that  we  can  better  things  if 
you  will  consent." 

She  kept  to  her  main  anxiety.  "What  do  you  mean 
you  want  to  do  about  the  house?" 

"Sell  it." 

"Have  you  had  an  offer?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"Carpenter  will  buy  it  any  day;   you  know  his  offer." 

"And  you'd  let  it  go  for  that?"  she  said,  with  contempt. 

"  Gladly,  to  be  rid  of  it  and  be  able  to  do  something  else." 

"And  what  is  that,  pray." 

"Ocean  View  Avenue  is  not  so  fashionable  a  location 
as  this,  but  there  is  more  natural  beauty  there,  a  grove 

54 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

for  the  boys  to  play  in,  and  a  wonderful  chance  for  a  gar- 
den. I'd  like  to  build  there — not  a  house  like  this — God 
forbid! — but  a  simple,  artistic  place  that  the  boys  could 
grow  up  in  and  we  can  always  keep.  There  is  a  cottage 
there  now;  it  could  be  moved  back  and  fitted  up  for  the 
boys — a  schoolroom  and  playroom  for  them.  Then  the 
thing  I  should  be  extravagant  about  would  be  a  nursery 
governess  for  them,  some  one  who  is  a  lady  and  has  in- 
telligence as  well — such  people  can  be  found  for  money. 
.  .  .  You  would  be  pretty  free  then,  Caroline — time  to 
read,  time  to  come  up  to  the  theaters  and  other  places 
with  me.  If  you  wanted  to  do  it,  you  could  go  with  me 
on  my  journeys  sometimes.  I  have  to  go  to  Europe  this 
winter!  You  could  go  perfectly  well.  If  you  will  only 
recognize  that  you  are  in  a  groove,  and  try  to  get  out  of 
it,  I  believe  you  can."  Alyth  had  ended  with  more  of 
pleading  than  Caroline  had  heard  from  him  for  years. 

She  was  silent,  at  first  from  surprise,  then  from  uncon- 
querable disapproval. 

"Something  of  the  kind  is  easily  possible,"  Alyth 
added,  with  the  instant  sensing  of  her  opposition.  "I 
repeat  that  I  can't  go  on  as  I  am." 

The  threat  touched  off  the  anger  Caroline  was  trying 
to  control.  She  felt  that  she  had  borne  a  good  deal;  im- 
practical talk  of  sacrificing  the  house  that  she  had  labored 
over  so  hard,  and  that  she  had  meant  from  the  beginning 
to  be  a  stepping-stone  to  a  second  paying  investment  of 
the  same  kind;  the  ridiculous  idea  of  relinquishing  the 
prestige  a  home  in  Park  Place  gave;  her  changed  ap- 
pearance, of  which  she  was  sometimes  conscious,  held  up 
to  her;  but  most  hotly  angering  of  all,  Alyth's  suggestion 
about  the  children.  Since  a  disastrous  quarrel  or  two 
over  Jack,  Alyth  had  attempted  to  hide  his  disapproval 
of  her  methods,  but  Caroline  had  guessed  his  thoughts 
and  secretly  swelled  with  defiance.  She  was  rearing  her 
boys  as  she  had  been  reared,  and  would  continue  to  do  so ! 

55 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"You  talk  of  sacrificing  property,  and  investing  in  a 
place  that  won't  increase  in  value,  and  hiring  nursery 
governesses  and  all  such,  as  if  you  had  a  million!"  she 
said,  angrily.  "A  mother's  place  is  with  her  children. 
Do  you  suppose  I'd  leave  my  boys  and  run  about  as  you 
say?  .  .  .  Indeed  I  wouldn't!" 

Alyth  managed  to  keep  his  temper.  "We  are  not  liv- 
ing in  New  Rome,  Caroline.  We  have  progressed  a  bit 
since  you  and  I  were  children.  It's  dawned  on  some  of 
us  that  we  are  the  worst  possible  educators  of  our  own 
children.  We  have  to  'run  around'  a  bit — in  the  sense 
in  which  I  meant  it — if  we  are  going  to  keep  pace  with 
them,  to  say  nothing  of  guiding  them.  .  .  .  The  plan  I 
outlined  is  perfectly  feasible.  We  would  be  out  of  debt 
then,  have  a  real  home  over  our  heads,  and  under  a  dif- 
ferent r6gime  you  and  I  might  be  something  more  to 
each  other  than  we  have  been  of  late  years." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  it,  George,"  Caroline  said,  quiver- 
ing with  nervous  dread.  "And  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
sell  the  house  without  my  consent.  How  do  you  sup- 
pose it  would  look  for  us  to  sell  here  at  a  sacrifice  and 
go  off  to  Ocean  View  Avenue  to  live  in  a  cheap  house? 
Everybody'd  say  you  were  in  difficulties.  It  would  hurt 
your  business.  How  would  I  explain  it  to  the  women  I 
know?  They'd  think  we  were  a  couple  of  idiots.  .  .  . 
The  whole  thing  is  ridiculous  —  just  one  of  your  im- 
practical ideas.  ...  As  for  my  children  —  they'll  stay 
with  their  mother!"  She  ended  more  hotly  than  she 
had  begun. 

There  was  silence  for  a  time.  Then  Alyth  asked, 
quietly,  "I  suppose  you  have  counted  the  cost?  ...  Or 
are  you  too  ignorant  to  realize?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean?"  she  said,  almost  in 
tears.  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  saying  that 
you  won't  go  on  as  you  are. "  And  Alyth  knew  that  she 
did  not  know;  that  she  was  really  incapable  of  compre- 

56 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

hending  his  ideal  of  a  home,  or  of  understanding  his  need. 
She  was  densely  ignorant  of  man's  nature;  ignorant 
about  herself;  ignorant  about  the  natures  of  her  children. 
She  was  shrewd  in  only  one  direction,  because  all  the 
intelligence  she  possessed  had  been  concentrated  on  a 
single  idea. 

"I  mean,"  Alyth  said,  deliberately  endeavoring  to 
present  to  her  a  phase  that  must  impress  even  her  ob- 
tuseness — "I  mean  that  if  I  must  live  in  a  home  I  don't 
own,  with  children  reared  to  think  of  nothing  but  buying 
and  selling,  with  a  wife  who  has  only  a  cold  cheek  for  me 
when  I  enter,  and  who  insists  on  living  in  a  way  that  is 
going  in  time  to  deaden  the  best  in  me — from  day's  end 
to  day's  end  nothing  but  a  continual  pressure  on  me  to 
earn,  earn,  to  'get  on,'  to  'get  on' — a  strap  across  the 
shoulders  of  a  pack-horse — if  I  must  have  such  a  home, 
I'll  endeavor  to  live  out  of  it  as  much  as  I  possibly  can." 
He  turned  about  and  made  for  the  garden. 

Caroline  sat  dumb,  then  caught  her  breath  from  the 
shock  of  a  too  sudden  suspicion.  She  sat  quite  still  under 
it  for  a  time,  for  on  the  instant  she  had  jumped  to  a  con- 
clusion. She  was  bathed  for  a  moment  in  the  heat  of 
conviction — not  the  desolation  of  love,  or  its  instant  de- 
sire for  the  thing  departed — simply  the  quick,  blind  leap 
of  anger.  It  brought  her  to  her  feet. 

"I  suppose  you  are  in  love  with  some  other  woman. 
Well,  you  are  welcome  to  her!"  she  called  after  him.  "I 
don't  want  you!" 

Then  as  Alyth  went  on  without  answer,  she  sat  down 
to  think,  at  first  breathlessly,  then  deliberately.  .  .  .  Could 
the  other  woman  drive  her  from  her  home?  .  .  .  Not  if 
she  persisted  in  spite  of  everything  to  do  her  duty  as 
housekeeper  and  mother.  She  would  give  him  no  divorce, 
not  she!  .  .  .  Jealous  certainty  takes  quick  strides,  and  in 
Caroline's  hurried  going  the  entire  conversation  appeared 
pregnant  with  a  meaning  inimical  to  herself.  To  Caroline 

57 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

marriage  meant  certain  material  advantages,  the  con- 
servation of  property  for  the  benefit  of  the  family.  No, 
she  would  cling  to  her  present  surroundings  like  a  leech. 
She  would  not  be  forced  into  a  disruption.  If,  at  Alyth's 
urging,  she  gave  up  her  home,  where  would  she  be?  He 
might  refuse  to  provide  another  for  her  and  she  would 
be  forced  to  go  to  her  father. 

Panic  had  her  again  for  a  space,  and  she  stood  at  bay. 
Just  let  him  try  to  dislodge  her!  .  .  .  Then  because  of  the 
knowledge  of  her  husband's  nature,  that  is  vouchsafed 
even  to  a  woman  as  mentally  inelastic  as  Caroline,  the 
instinctive  recognition  of  the  world-truth  that  man  is 
essentially  conventional,  pre-eminently  a  creature  of 
custom,  a  close  respecter  of  the  laws  he  himself  has 
builded;  that  it  is  woman  who  is  the  incalculable  quantity 
because  she  is  merely  the  accepter  of  man's  laws  and  at 
heart  unbound  by  them — because  of  her  subconscious 
knowledge,  Caroline  relaxed  into  relief.  Alyth  would  do 
nothing  of  the  kind:  he  would  follow  the  middle  course. 
In  one  respect  he  would  go  his  own  way — he  had  man's 
unwritten  law  as  sanction,  for  under  the  much-respected 
Seventh  Commandment  man  has  written  for  man  the 
word,  "leniency."  In  looking  back  Caroline  could  see 
that  for  a  long  time  she  and  Alyth  had  merely  endured 
each  other,  though  until  this  evening  she  had  not  thought 
particularly  about  it. 

No,  let  him  go  his  own  way  if  he  would.  What  great 
difference  did  it  make  to  her?  But  married  they  were; 
outwardly  the  bond  held  good,  and  Alyth  would  recog- 
nize the  fact.  He  loved  his  children;  he  was  devoted  to 
his  profession.  What  young  business  man  with  success 
well  within  reach  wants  a  domestic  upheaval?  She  could 
hold  him  securely  enough  to  the  main  issue — remain  head 
of  his  house,  provider  for  her  and  her  children  he  must 
and  would  be. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Caroline  to  wonder  why  at  one  leap 

58 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

she  had  landed  in  the  midst  of  distrust,  suspicion,  calcula- 
tion— a  feeling  as  pronounced  as  cold  hatred  of  her  hus- 
band. It  was  Alyth  who  had  realized  how  gradual  and 
complete  their  growing  apart  had  been.  It  was  realiza- 
tion that  had  driven  him  to  a  last  desperate  effort. 

"I  have  done  what  I  could,"  he  repeated  now,  as  he 
hurried  out  of  reach  of  her  voice.  "I  have  done  what  I 
could — and  I'm  damned  sorry  for  the  boys!  They'll  be 
the  ones  hardest  hit." 

Alyth  had  come  to  the  very  end  of  the  garden.  Here 
he  was  enveloped  in  scented  stillness.  There  was  a  path 
where  he  could  walk,  an  outlook  over  the  Sound,  its  strip 
of  dimpled  water,  and  in  the  dimmer  reaches  lights  that 
came  and  went.  He  was  thinking  in  a  hot,  aching  way 
of  his  boys.  Caroline  would  cease  to  be  a  wife  after 
this,  and  that  hateful  house  less  of  a  home — he  knew  him- 
self and  Caroline  well  enough  to  predict  that.  .  .  .  The 
thing  would  end  in  the  divorce  court,  of  course,  and  Caro- 
line would  demand  her  pound  of  flesh.  He  would  have 
to  abandon  his  boys — leave  them  to  grow  up  like  Caro- 
line. ...  A  bitter  thing  that! 

Then,  as  Caroline  had  well  known,  the  alternative  pre- 
sented itself — the  inclination  to  the  conventional,  the 
adaptation  to  usage,  the  line  of  least  resistance;  keep  his 
half -hold  on  his  boys;  keep  his  business  intact;  conserve 
and  not  disrupt.  .  .  .  He  would  have  himself  to  fight;  he 
had  had  himself  to  fight  this  many  a  day,  and  he  could 
keep  it  up;  but,  if  endurance  failed  him,  there  was  the 
usual  compromise  open  to  him;  there  were  few  who 
would  blame  him — either  men  or  women. 

Alyth  pondered  as  he  walked  back  and  forth,  until  a 
sound  beyond  the  garden  wall  halted  him — a  woman's 
low  laugh  followed  by  a  deeper  murmur,  a  man's  re- 
joinder— his  neighbors  were  making  love.  The  pair  had 
come  out  into  the  moonlight,  moving  slowly,  and  Alyth 
watched  them.  The  woman's  light  gown,  distinct  against 
5  59 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

the  darker  form,  reminded  him  suddenly  and  vividly  of 
Myra  Milenberg's  questioning  face.  The  eternal  quest! 
She  also  was  loitering  in  the  moonlight — a  woman  in  the 
making.  The  whole  world  was  mating,  and  he  was 
denied  the  joy ! 

Alyth  turned  away  from  the  lovers,  head  up-flung,  a 
gust  of  revolt  shaking  him,  his  mother's  hot  blood  for  the 
moment  aflame.  He  was  young  enough  and  ardent  enough 
to  find  his  mate  and  build  again.  The  middle  course — 
bah!  There  was  the  taste  of  sawdust  and  ashes  about  it! 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  WOMAN  in  the  making — yes. 
During  those  early  September  days  St.  Claire  was 
trying  hard  to  win  more  than  a  half-promise  from  Myra 
Milenberg.  He  studied  the  self-questioning,  passionate, 
hesitant  girl  with  all  the  care  and  caution  a  man  bestows 
on  a  tremendous  venture,  for  it  had  become  that  with 
St.  Claire,  both  because  he  was  banking  on  Milenberg, 
and  because  a  struggle  between  instinct  and  passion  like 
Myra's  aroused  every  art  of  capture  he  possessed.  He 
wanted  the  unquestioning  adoration  that  so  many  women 
had  given  him;  he  had  a  huge  conceit  that  demanded  it. 

St.  Claire  remained  at  Myra's  side,  part  of  the  time  a 
guest  in  her  father's  house,  afterward  staying  in  New 
Rome.  He  would  not  risk  absence.  He  had  no  mind 
for  a  long  engagement;  he  needed  Milenberg's  financial 
help  too  badly;  so  he  was  pleading  that  they  be  married 
in  November — before  Thanksgiving — that  they  might  go 
to  the  Tennessee  mountains  for  their  honeymoon- — in 
time  for  the  glory  of  the  Indian  summer.  Then  he  could 
take  her  home  at  the  beginning  of  the  season,  and  show 
her  to  his  immense  connection,  prouder  than  any  king 
had  ever  been  of  his  bride.  It  was  his  declaration  that 
he  would  not  be  able  to  think  or  work  without  her  that 
moved  Myra  most. 

Milenberg  watched  St.  Claire's  tactics  with  no  little 
interest.  He  was  certainly  a  wonder  with  women.  He 
realized  that  the  secret  of  the  man's  success  was  the  secret 
of  most  success,  a  tremendous  belief  in  one's  own  power. 

61 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

St.  Claire  had  the  unalterable  conviction  that  he  could 
subjugate  any  woman  if  he  approached  her  rightly.  He 
was  thoroughly  Old  World  in  his  estimate  of  women — a 
surface  deference  and  chivalry  covering  a  vast  sense  of 
superiority. 

Milenberg  judged  the  man  who  wished  to  become  his 
son-in-law  with  the  cool  accuracy  with  which  he  judged 
every  man.  He  thought  St.  Claire  "smooth"  to  the 
point  of  genius.  The  man  was  worldly  wise  enough  not 
to  be  thinking  of  marriage  if  there  were  objections  that 
could  not  be  easily  straightened  out.  Milenberg  did  not 
trouble  himself  on  that  score;  he  had  perfect  confidence 
in  St.  Claire's  wise  handling  of  any  such  matter.  He 
could  use  St.  Claire  to  his  advantage,  and  he  wanted  his 
daughter  married  to  a  man  who  could  give  her  social 
position,  and,  through  her,  social  opportunities  to  his 
two  younger  daughters. 

As  a  rule  Milenberg  disapproved  of  Myra.  The  girl 
had  an  independent  bias,  an  unconventional  viewpoint, 
and  an  intolerance  of  generally  accepted  standards  that 
was  highly  irritating.  It  wasn't  the  thing  for  a  woman; 
it  was  dangerous.  To  marry  her  to  any  such  boy  as 
Eustace  would  mean  matrimonial  suicide.  St.  Claire 
evidently  meant  to  rule  her  through  her  emotions,  which 
Milenberg  believed  was  the  only  successful  way  to  govern 
a  woman — that  is,  if  she  had  temperament — and  if  not, 
by  economic  pressure.  Milenberg  had  almost  as  little 
regard  for  a  woman's  intellect  as  St.  Claire  himself  had. 

Milenberg  judged  to  a  nicety  St.  Claire's  social  prestige, 
his  legal  ability,  his  influence,  and  his  popularity.  How 
he  could  be  useful  to  St.  Claire  was  quite  as  clear  to  him 
as  were  the  various  ways  in  which  St.  Claire  could  be 
valuable.  Opposition  to  corporate  power  was  on  the 
increase.  St.  Claire  had  served  corporations  for  years; 
he  had  also  served  the  government.  Milenberg  wanted 
the  interested  advice  of  just  such  a  man.  The  situa- 

62 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

tion  was  sufficiently  serious  to  keep  him  at  home  for  a 
longer  period  than  usual.  With  the  patience  he  always 
had  at  command  when  engineering  a  matter  of  importance, 
he  kept  Karl  Janniss  busy  over  his  portrait  and  waited. 

It  was  Mrs.  Milenberg  who  worried  over  the  situation. 
Myra  was  a  riddle  to  her.  The  girl  grew  pale  and  thinner, 
her  great  eyes  more  andnmore  dominating  her  face.  Just 
what  troubled  her  daughter  Mrs.  Milenberg  could  not 
imagine,  but  certainly  she  did  not  look  happy,  and  she 
could  not  bear  to  see  it.  St.  Claire  was  so  exactly  the 
sort  of  man  she  in  her  girlhood  would  have  worshiped — 
handsome,  charming,  clever,  and  thoroughly  correct.  To 
her  intense  satisfaction  she  had  discovered  that  his  people 
had  always  been  churchmen  and  conservatives;  that  he 
himself  was  on  the  governing  board  of  almost  every  im- 
portant charity  in  his  city,  and  a  frequent  lecturer  to 
organizations  like  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

And  yet,  life  having  dealt  Mrs.  Milenberg  some  hard 
blows,  she  began  to  question  in  the  depths  of  her  own 
mind  whether  possibly  all  was  not  so  fair  as  it  seemed. 
St.  Claire  was  such  an  attractive  man.  There  were  cer- 
tain things  that  would  be  insurmountable  to  Myra.  Mrs. 
Milenberg  declined  to  actually  think  of  any  such  com- 
plication ;  having  been  reared  on  the  theory  that  fostering 
an  illusion  does  much  to  make  it  a  reality,  that  what  you 
decline  to  see  does  not  exist,  she  was  quite  incapable  of 
thinking  or  speaking  in  a  straightforward  way  about  the 
most  ordinary  and  natural  manifestations  of  nature.  She 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  playing  about  over  the 
church  spires  of  New  Rome  in  an  aeroplane  as  to  ques- 
tion St.  Claire  about  his  past;  in  her  day  such  matters 
were  left  to  the  man  of  the  house.  She  shrank  even  from 
discussing  the  subject  with  her  husband. 

She  did,  however,  on  one  occasion,  approach  it  ob- 
liquely. "Have  you  noticed,  James,  Myra  doesn't  seem 
happy?"  she  ventured. 

63 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

«Um — "  said  Milenberg.    "I  don't  know  that  I  have." 

"Mr.  St.  Claire  seems  such  a — such  a  good  man  to 
me  ...  such  a  Christian  gentleman?"  Mrs.  Milenberg 
persisted. 

Her  husband  gave  her  one  of  his  faintly  amused  glances. 
"Of  course,"  he  agreed,  dryly.  " I  hadn't  thought  of  him 
in  just  that  light,  though.  .  .  .  Myra  has  sense  enough  not 
to  demand  the  impossible,  my  dear,  and  when  he  marries 
her  St.  Claire  will  know  how  to  govern  his  wife,  which  is 
much  more  to  the  point.  ...  I  think  I  wouldn't  worry 
over  the  matter  if  I  were  you.  St.  Claire  is  handling  his 
case  very  well,  in  my  estimation." 

Mrs.  Milenberg  scurried  away  from  the  disagreeable 
subject,  but  she  took  then  to  hovering  over  her  daughter. 
One  night  she  tiptoed  into  Myra's  room  to  make  un- 
necessary inquiries  about  the  bedding  and  the  windows. 
Myra  had  come  up  from  the  garden,  where  she  had  been 
with  St.  Claire,  and  was  already  in  bed,  a  long,  slim  out- 
line beneath  the  lace  coverlid. 

"Mr.  Janniss  has  about  finished  your  father's  por- 
trait," she  remarked,  apropos  of  nothing.  She  was  going, 
for  Myra  had  not  asked  her  to  stay. 

Myra  reached  out  suddenly  and  drew  her  to  the  bed. 
"Sit  down,  mother,"  she  said  in  low  tones.  She  put  her 
arms  around  her  then,  laying  her  head  in  her  mother's 
lap.  Mrs.  Milenberg  could  not  remember  her  having 
done  such  a  thing  since  she  was  a  child.  It  was  more 
often  Myra  who  watched  over  her  mother  as  over  a  child. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  stroked  the  girl's  abundant  hair,  her 
throat  aching,  she  did  not  know  why.  "You're  so  pretty 
these  days,  Myra;  I  don't  believe  I  ever  saw  you  look  so 
pretty,"  she  said  in  her  helpless  way;  "but  you  are 
thinner." 

"It's  loving  makes  me  thin."  The  confession  was  like 
Myra's  usual  ungirlish  candor. 

"You  love  him  a  great  deal,  don't  you?" 

64 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Yes.  ...  So  much  that  I  can't  think  straight." 

Mrs.  Milenberg  went  timorously  on.  "You  seem  to 
be  worried.  ...  Is  there  anything  about — about — Mr. 
St.  Claire  that  makes  you  unhappy,  Myra?" 

Myra  always  had  an  instant  reading  of  her  mother's 
mind.  "No,"  she  said,  steadily,  "not  in  the  way  you 
mean.  I  asked  Justin  to  be  honest  with  me,  and  he  has 
been.  I  couldn't  love  a  man  who  was  not  straightforward 
about  himself." 

Mrs.  Milenberg  breathed  her  relief.  It  was  like  the 
girl  to  take  the  matter  into  her  own  hands — do  her  own 
questioning.  "You  ought  to  be  happy  then,  Myra,  yet 
you  don't  seem  to  be.  Why  is  it,  dear?" 

Myra  did  not  answer  for  a  moment;  then  she  said, 
slowly,  "It  is  myself — mostly — ' 

"But  you  said  you  loved  him?" 

"I  am  afraid  of  myself,"  Myra  said,  in  the  same  slow, 
painful  way,  as  if  she  were  drawing  thoughts  up  from 
some  great  depth.  "There  is  so  much  in  me  to  be  satis- 
fied. .  .  .  Will  he  give  me  the  things  I  want — or  will  I 
starve? ...  I  want  to  be  near  him — I  don't  mean  caressed. 
I  want  to  see  more  into  his  mind  and  his  heart;  I  want 
him  to  care  more  to  see  into  mine.  ...  I  try  to  tell  him, 
and  he  touches  me — and — I  can't  even  whisper.  .  .  .  It's 
as  if  he  meant  me  not  to  think — " 

"It's  just  that  you  love  each  other  so  much,"  her 
mother  said. 

"Is  it  loving  each  other — really — to  know  nothing 
about  each  other? ...  Is  it  fair  that  I  must  go  into  a  thing 
I  don't  understand,  and  tied  hand  and  foot  beforehand, 
with  only  just  this  feeling  of — weakness?"  She  was 
burning.  She  drew  herself  out  of  her  mother's  arms  and 
sat  up. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  felt  a  little  desperate.  "I  don't  know 
why  you  feel  so  uncertain,  unless  it  is  that  he  is  so  much 
older  than  you,  and  you  feel  the  difference.  But  you 

65 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

never  liked  boys.  ...  I  do  think  he  is  desperately  in  love 
with  you,  Myra.  If  you  sent  him  away,  I  think  it  would 
be  dreadful  for  you!" 

"I  would  send  him  away  if  I  thought  in  the  end  it 
would  bring  us  nearer  to  each  other." 

Her  mother's  fears  were  up  in  arms.  She  was  desper- 
ately afraid  of  some  rashness  on  Myra's  part.  "I  don't 
believe  it  would.  And  if  he  should  give  you  up,  Myra! 
He  might  very  well  think  you  didn't  love  him.  I  don't 
know  just  what  it  is  that  is  troubling  you,  and  probably 
Mr.  St.  Claire  doesn't.  You  have  so  many  advanced 
ideas,  Myra.  I  don't  believe  girls  nowadays  do  know 
what  they  want.  When  I  was  a  girl  we  didn't  know  so 
much,  nor  question  so  much.  We  took  what  came  to 
us  and  tried  to  be  satisfied.  We  felt  that  if  we  did  our 
duty,  we  were  doing  the  very  best  we  could.  I've  always 
tried  to  believe  that  way.  What  good  does  all  this  know- 
ing and  questioning  do?  It  only  makes  you  girls  dis- 
satisfied!" Mrs.  Milenberg  was  at  last  voicing  her  secret 
protest,  quoting  from  her  gospel  of  passivity. 

"I  know,  mother,  I  know,"  Myra  said,  wearily.  "We 
have  simply  grown  up  in  different  schools,  you  and  I. 
What  appears  a  duty  to  you  may  not  appear  so  to  me." 

"I  have  tried  to  bring  you  up  in  the  right  way,  Myra." 
Her  mother  was  very  near  tears. 

"I  know  you  did,"  Myra  said,  "what  you  thought 
the  right  way.  You  were  brought  up  to  wear  blinders, 
mother,  and  when  you  tried  to  put  them  on  me  I  shook 
them  off.  My  intelligence  wouldn't  have  it.  ...  I  have 
a  brain  as  well  as — feelings — to  be  satisfied,  and  if  it  is 
not  I  shall  be  wretched.  .  .  .  You  have  helped  me  to  put 
it  into  words,  mother.  If  I  have  to  be  to  my  husband 
only — "  She  stopped  abruptly,  for  the  unspoken  words 
were,  "what  you  have  been  to  yours." 

Mrs.  Milenberg  was  still  struggling  with  the  tightness 
in  her  throat.  "  I've  tried  to  bring  you  up  to  be  a  dutiful 

66 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

wife  and  a  loving  mother,  Myra.  I  don't  see  why  you 
haven't  every  reason  to  be  happy — 

"Poor  mother!"  Myra  said,  with  sudden  tenderness. 
"You  have  been  dear  to  me  always!"  She  put  her  arms 
about  her  mother's  neck,  turning  her  face  to  her  own  hot 
cheek.  "I  want  to  be  a  loving  and  an  intelligent  wife 
and  mother — I  want  it  more  even  than  you  can  want  it, 
dear — so  when  I  can't  think  straight,  when  things  don't 
seem  to  me  to  be  as  they  should  be,  I  am  frightened. 
None  of  you  seem  to  understand,  and  yet  all  of  you  are 
urging  me — "  Her  hot  clasp  was  so  tight  it  hurt. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  was  shocked.  "I  didn't  know  any 
one  had  said  a  word  to  you — except  Mr.  St.  Claire  him- 
self. It's  natural  for  him  to  urge!" 

Myra  only  drew  a  quick  breath.  Then  after  a  time 
she  said,  more  quietly:  "You  see,  mother,  it  seems  to  me 
that  love  should  be  a  great  peace — a  deep  certainty.  .  .  . 
Not  as  it  is  with  me." 

"That  will   come  afterward,"   Mrs.  Milenberg  urged. 

Myra  went  on  with  her  thoughts.  "Perhaps  it  is 
only  a  child  that  gives  you  that — great  happiness.  .  .  . 
Is  it?  ...  Did  you  have  it,  mother — that  big  content — 
when  I  came?" 

This  was  a  matter  of  which  Mrs.  Milenberg  could  speak 
understandingly  and  without  embarrassment.  "Yes,  in- 
deed, I  was  happy!"  she  said,  earnestly.  "There  is  no 
joy  like  it,  Myra." 

"I  want  a  child,"  her  daughter  said;  her  voice  had 
deepened  and  quickened. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  did  not  like  the  baldness  of  the  state- 
ment, but  she  went  on.  "A  child  makes  up  to  you  for 
everything,  Myra.  There's  been  things  hard  for  me  to 
bear,  but  just  you  alone  have  repaid  me  for  all  I  have 
suffered — repaid  me  over  and  over  again.  ...  I  don't 
want  you  to  throw  away  your  chance  of  happiness." 

They  sat  then  for  some  time,  listening  to  the  night 

67 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

sounds  from  the  terraces  below.  It  was  very  still,  a  dark 
night.  They  could  even  hear  distinctly  footsteps  on  the 
graveled  path,  a  steady  pacing  back  and  forth.  Myra 
reached  over  and  touched  her  mother.  "He  is  there!" 
she  whispered,  tensely.  "He  can't  sleep!" 

Her  mother's  answer  was  sharpened  by  reproach. 
There  was  in  it  woman's  always  ready  pity  for  the  man. 
"You  are  making  him  wretched,  Myra!" 

Her  daughter  flung  up  her  hands,  an  impassioned  ges- 
ture. "I  know  it — •"  she  said,  suddenly  choking.  "I 
know  it!  ...  Oh,  mother,  what  shall  I  do?" 

It  was  out  at  last,  the  cry  for  help,  a  choking,  smother- 
ing cry  from  a  convulsed  child  who  clung  to  her  like  one 
drowning.  Mrs.  Milenberg,  helpless  and  frightened, 
crept  into  bed  and  held  her,  uncomprehending  except 
vaguely,  and  with  only  the  blind  advice  to  offer,  "You 
love  him  so  much— I  should  marry  him,  dear." 

Myra  sobbed  out  her  repetitions  of  uncertainty,  her 
revelations  of  emotion,  her  needs  in  the  future,  a  strug- 
gling, smothering  endeavor  to  disentangle  from  the  mesh 
of  doubt  and  passion  the  ideal  that  eluded  her;  a  reiter- 
ation as  frequent  as  her  mother's  refrain. 

She  sobbed  herself  in  the  end  into  utter  exhaustion; 
like  the  student  who,  after  poring  all  night  over  a  prob- 
lem that  remains  unsolved,  in  the  gray  of  morning  sees 
the  open  page  still  before  him,  but  grown  dim  and  waver- 
ing, his  brain  too  lax  to  answer  any  longer  to  the  prod- 
ding of  his  tired  will. 


CHAPTER   VII 

1VTEVERTHELESS,  after  those  hours  of  distress  Myra 
1  N  was  better  able  to  define  her  ideal  and  reach  a  de- 
cision. 

St.  Claire  took  her  up  to  the  ridge  between  the  hills 
to  look  out  upon  a  valley  that,  though  it  was  mid-morning, 
was  still  streaked  with  mist.  There  was  a  hint  of  autumn 
in  the  air,  a  chill  that  allowed  the  dew  to  still  sparkle  on 
the  spikes  of  sumac,  making  them  look  succulent. 

It  was  Myra  who  had  always  driven,  but  this  morning 
she  had  silently  obeyed  St.  Claire  when  he  announced 
that  he  would  drive.  One  glance  at  her  white  face  with 
its  blue-tinged  eyelids  told  him  that  a  crisis  of  some  sort 
was  at  hand.  As  they  went  on  he  could  study  her  face, 
for  she  was  not  looking  at  him,  only  at  the  objects  they 
passed,  though  in  a  vague  way,  as  if  her  eyes  conveyed 
no  distinct  impression  to  her  brain.  Was  she  too  ex- 
hausted by  the  long  struggle  to  any  longer  offer  resist- 
ance, or  was  she  suffering  because  she  must  hurt  him? 
St.  Claire  also  was  pale,  but  bright-eyed,  intent,  alert. 
It  was  when  the  pounding  beneath  them  ceased  that  she 
realized  where  they  were,  and  turned  to  meet  his  intently 
questioning  look. 

"Justin— 

"Yes?"  he  said,  quickly. 

"I  am  sorry  for  these  last  weeks — if  I  have  made  you 
unhappy — I  couldn't  help  it.  ...  I  will  many  you  when 
you  want  me  to." 

It  leapt  at  him  and  through  him,  the  same  tremendous 

69 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

relief  that  had  swept  him  from  his  feet  once  before.  It 
seemed  her  part  to  surprise  him  completely.  It  was  her 
utter  sincerity,  her  clean  directness,  a  quality  so  foreign 
to  his  own  nature  that  it  often  amazed  him.  He  was 
unable  to  see  in  it  anything  but  a  total  lack  of  astute- 
ness, a  certain  childlike  simplicity  that  laid  her  open  to 
deception.  Still,  he  knew  better  now  than  to  touch  her. 
He  let  the  first  wave  of  emotion  pass  before  he  put  his 
arms  about  her. 

"My  darling — "  She  turned  her  face  to  his  shoulder, 
and  he  kissed  her  neck  then — where  the  curls  of  hair 
rested  on  it.  He  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  "My 
darling,  you  are  good  to  me." 

She  raised  her  head  so  she  could  speak.  "Justin — I 
have  tried  to  tell  you;  our  marriage  must  mean  a  great 
friendship  as  well  as — a  wish  for  each  other,  or  we  will 
grow  apart.  We  must  have  the  same  conception,  and 
the  same  ideals,  or  we  can  never  be  really  one.  ...  I 
care  far  more  for  the  understanding  between  us  than 
I  do  for  the  marriage  service,  for  what  is  not  in  the 
heart  and  the  head  cannot  be  put  there  by  the  mere 
saying  of  words." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  dear,  and  what  you  want,  I 
want.  You  shall  make  of  our  life  whatever  you  will.  .  .  . 
But  won't  you  give  up  doubting  and  questioning  from 
now  on?  For  my  sake — for  love's  sake.  Dream  a  little 
— give  yourself  up  to  the  joy  of  love.  The  past  doesn't 
matter  particularly,  and  the  future  will  be  in  your  hands. 
...  I  want  to  kiss  the  color  into  your  cheeks,  my  little 
wife  to  be." 

St.  Claire  was  thinking,  as  he  had  often  before,  that  she 
possessed  a  jumble  of  ideas  that  sat  crosswise  of  her  tem- 
perament. To  his  mind  there  was  but  one  way  to  dom- 
inate a  nature  such  as  hers — treat  her  as  one  would  any 
other  spoiled  woman,  show  deference  to  her  notions,  but 
make  himself  master  of  her  emotions.  A  creature  with 

70 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

deer's  eyes,  and  the  lips  and  body  of  love  itself,  talking 
modern  trash! 

But  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  kissed  and  soothed  her 
into  silence,  and  only  after  she  had  talked  fully  and  ear- 
nestly about  the  future,  her  desires  that  she  must  be  as- 
sured were  his  also. 

"Let  us  make  a  real  home,  Justin,"  she  begged.  "A 
home  with  children  in  it,  a  place  that  is  apart  from  the 
rest  of  the  world,  not  a  house  built  for  the  public  like 
that  awful  thing  of  father's  down  there  that  hasn't  a 
particle  of  love  to  make  it  beautiful.  ...  I  am  so  thank- 
ful that  you  do  not  care  for  money.  It  is  one  of  the 
things  I  love  in  you." 

"You  take  the  right  view,  dear,"  he  agreed,  tenderly. 
"Put  your  arms  about  my  neck;  tell  me  that  you  love 
me.  I  want  to  see  you  look  happy." 

He  allowed  her  then  to  draw  from  him  the  promise 
that  he  would  go  back  to  his  work  and  leave  her  "to  pre- 
pare myself  for  the  home  we  are  going  to  make,"  as  she 
phrased  it.  And  after  his  long  conference  with  Milen- 
berg  that  afternoon  he  was  ready  to  go.  With  St.  Claire 
love  was  a  period  of  emotional  intensity  that  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  serious  affairs  of  life,  and  there  were  seri- 
ous enough  questions  now  pending  his  decision. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  was  tearful  when  St.  Claire  spoke  his 
graceful  words  of  approaching  kinship.  It  was  relief 
as  much  as  anything  else  that  made  her  weep.  Her 
daughter  was  going  to  be  happy;  this  was  a  fortunate 
outcome  of  a  night  of  misery. 

To  her  father  Myra  went  alone.  She  made  the  an- 
nouncement of  her  engagement  in  her  usual  direct  way: 
"You  know,  father,  that  Mr.  St.  Claire  wants  me  to 
marry  him.  I  have  promised  that  it  shall  be  in  Novem- 
ber." 

"Have  you?"  said  Milenberg,  briefly.  "Well,  I'm 
glad." 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  was  seated  at  his  desk,  and  looked  up  at  his  daugh- 
ter in  a  business-like  way,  his  keen  eyes  noting  her  ex- 
pression. Milenberg  was  not  given  to  demonstrations 
of  affection,  and  least  of  all  to  his  eldest  daughter,  whose 
disapproval  of  him  he  realized  perfectly.  But  he  had 
hardly  expected  the  girl  to  look  so  grave.  At  the  same 
time  he  liked  the  direct  way  in  which  she  had  expressed 
herself.  If  she  had  shown  sentimentality,  he  would  have 
been  barely  tolerant  and  have  dismissed  her  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"Mother  is  pleased,  and  you  are,  too,  are  you  not, 
father?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  he  is  the  husband  for  you."  Milenberg 
studied  her  keenly,  for  his  quick  perception  told  him  that 
her  manner  was  respectfully  purposeful. 

"I  should  like,  then,  to  ask  a  favor  of  you,  father.  I 
know  you  want  my  marriage  to  be  a  happy  one,  and  that 
is  the  big  thing  I  want.  I  shall  feel  so  much  more  satis- 
fied if  I  am  independent,  so  what  I  am  asking  is  for  you 
to  make  me  so — I  mean  in  the  way  of  money.  ...  I  do 
not  want  much,  just  enough  to  feel  that  I  could  live  on  it 
if  I  had  to.  But  I  should  like  to  have  it  my  own,  given 
outright  to  me,  and  then  I  want  you  to  show  me  how  to 
manage  it." 

Milenberg  looked  at  her  without  change  of  expression. 
"I  suppose  St.  Claire  advised  it?"  he  said  then. 

Myra  was  positive.  "No,  Justin  has  never  said  a 
word  to  me  about  money — in  any  connection.  It  is  just 
a  thing  I  have  thought  out  for  myself.  If  Eustace 
started  in  business  you  would  give  him  a  sum  to  set  him 
up.  I  have  heard  you  offer  it  to  him  if  he  would  only  go 
to  work.  In  a  way,  I  am  starting  out  in  business,  and  I 
should  feel  happier,  more  mistress  of  my  future,  if  I  did 
not  go  to  Justin  as  a  dependent.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see  what 
I  mean,  father?" 

Myra  had  ended  with  a  touch  of  pleading,  for  she  had 

72 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

instantly  sensed  her  father's  cool  consideration.  Milen- 
berg  never  took  his  eyes  from  the  man  with  whom  he  was 
doing  business.  If  possible,  he  held  him,  eye  to  eye,  the 
only  indication  he  ever  showed  of  his  chasing  thoughts 
being  a  slight  filming  of  his  steel-pointed  gaze.  He  had 
fixed  Myra  in  the  same  way,  and  she  understood  him 
well  enough  to  know  that  he  was  considering  swiftly  and 
unalterably,  even  when  he  asked,  with  his  usual  brevity 
and  curt  smile: 

"Aren't  you  preparing  for  trouble  betimes?" 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes.  "I  thought  I  was  pre- 
paring to  be  happy.  .  .  .  Women  are  happier  if  they  are  in- 
dependent, father."  Her  mother's  bitter  complaint.  "If 
I  had  taken  you  children  and  gone,  what  would  we  have 
lived  on?"  was  as  fresh  in  Myra's  mind  as  the  day  it  was 
uttered. 

Milenberg  took  his  eyes  from  her,  shoving  back  his 
chair  to  rise,  and  Myra  knew  then  that  he  had  decided, 
but  what  she  had  no  means  of  telling. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  said,  in  the  not  ill-natured 
way  in  which  he  so  often  spoke  to  her  mother.  "Well — 
we'll  see  about  it." 

He  stood  beside  her,  a  little,  trim  man,  arms  straight 
at  his  sides.  Milenberg  never  fidgeted  or  fingered  any- 
thing, which  was  probably  the  reason  why  he  impressed 
others  as  being  a  taller  man  than  he  was.  His  only  caress 
now  was  the  hand  he  put  on  Myra's  shoulder. 

"Go  on,  and  don't  worry,"  he  said,  in  his  commanding 
way.  "I'll  see  to  it  that  you  don't  go  to  your  husband 
empty-handed.  I'm  worth  a  few  thousands  to  Justin 
St.  Claire.  .  .  .  Let  me  tell  you  something — you're  a  baby 
with  notions.  You've  taken  the  bridle  off  your  thoughts, 
and  still  have  a  check-rein  on  your  emotions,  and  it  don't 
work  with  women — that.  It  makes  them  want  to  turn 
the  world  upside  down.  .  .  .  You  run  along  now,  and  get 
that  check  I  gave  your  mother  for  you.  It  ought  to  make 

73 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

your  eyes  dance.  Just  get  to  work  on  your  clothes  and 
leave  your  future  'independence'  to  me.  After  you've 
been  married  a  week  I'll  wager  you'll  have  forgotten  you 
ever  lost  sleep  over  the  subject.  .  .  .  Go  on  now!" 

There  was  no  use  urging,  Myra  knew  that.  Her  father's 
millions  were  his  own,  and  by  right  of  acquirement;  he 
could  give  or  withhold  as  pleased  him. 

But  she  protested.  "Thank  you  for  the  check,  father; 
but  I  don't  want  a  huge  trousseau — indeed  I  don't — or  a 
big  wedding!" 

"Nonsense!"  her  father  said,  with  a  good-natured  for- 
bearance that  was  not  without  its  edge  of  command. 
"You  can't  expect  to  marry  one  of  the  best-known  men 
in  this  part  of  the  world  and  not  make  a  bit  of  a  fuss  over 
it.  St.  Claire  expects  it.  Besides,  you'd  be  depriving 
your  mother  of  one  of  the  biggest  pleasures  of  her  life. 
If  you  care  anything  about  her,  let  her  fuss  over  you  for 
the  next  two  months.  I've  given  her  carte  blanche.  .  .  . 
Run  along  now,  and  good-by  for  the  present.  I'm  off  to 
Chicago  with  Janniss.  I  have  a  mind  to  make  that  young 
man — he's  pleased  me  with  my  portrait." 

There  was  no  withstanding  him;  he  held  too  firmly 
grasped  the  handle  of  the  economic  whip.  Myra  thanked 
him  somewhat  indistinctly  and  went.  But  she  was  dis- 
trait under  her  mother's  excited  satisfaction.  Mrs.  Mi- 
lenberg  was  very  happy.  She  had  always  looked  for- 
ward to  Myra's  wedding;  the  girl  was  so  beautiful;  it 
was  such  a  delight  to  dress  her,  to  touch  her,  to  make  her 
lovely  for  that  greatest  event  in  a  woman's  life.  It  re- 
vived her  own  girlhood,  carried  her  back  over  the  years, 
many  of  which  had  been  unbeautiful,  to  the  time  of 
dreams,  of  sentiment. 

Myra  took  it  all  very  quietly.  There  was  the  hush 
of  solemnity  upon  her.  That  big  future  of  which  she 
was  constantly  thinking  was  so  near.  She  had  decided, 
vested  her  all,  turned  her  back  upon  doubt.  She  held  her 

74 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

ideal  firmly  clasped,  both  she  and  it  enveloped  in  the 
love  of  the  man  who  had  won  her.  She  had  his  assur- 
ance; he  was  one  with  her  in  thought  as  well  as  in  feel- 
ing. Love  began  to  run  deep  and  strong  in  her. 

It  was  true  that  his  daily  letters  did  not  satisfy,  for, 
skilful  though  he  was,  St.  Claire  failed  on  paper;  he  was 
not  present  to  give  grace  to  his  somewhat  trite  love- 
making,  and  had  Myra  been  more  experienced  she  would 
have  known  better  how  to  classify  the  lack.  As  it  was 
she  laid  the  blame  upon  herself.  She  expected  too  much. 
"What  you  want,  I  want — I  have  no  wishes  apart  from 
yours.  Our  life  together  is  yours  to  mold,"  he  wrote. 
What  more  could  she  ask?  Myra  was  already,  though 
quite  unconsciously,  drawing  on  woman's  sublime  capacity 
to  drape  an  inadequacy  in  the  garment  of  idealization. 

Then  after  three  weeks  St.  Claire  came,  bright  of  eye, 
head  high,  deferential  yet  compelling.  His  presence  stilled 
the  small  ache  in  her.  With  his  arms  about  her,  and  the 
tender  echoing  of  her  every  thought,  the  last  vestige  of 
doubt  vanished,  and  there  was  born  the  thing  that  is 
love  in  its  entirety,  a  willingness  for  self-sacrifice,  a  tre- 
mendous faith  in  the  object  beloved,  a  conviction  of 
perfect  unity.  With  her  hand  in  his  Myra  answered  to 
the  law  of  her  being,  an  utterly  sincere  revelation  of  her- 
self. She  opened  her  mind  and  her  heart  to  him,  permit- 
ting him  to  look  into  the  depths  and  up  to  the  heights  of 
her  nature,  quite  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
short  of  vision,  and  that  his  thoughts  traveled  in  a  nar- 
row channel  built  for  them  by  tradition,  and  cemented 
in  by  much  unlovely  experience. 

For  St.  Claire  was  exercising  to  the  utmost  his  extraor- 
dinary power  of  surface  adaptation,  his  genius  for  being 
seen  as  he  wished  to  be  seen.  Myra's  idealization  of  him 
delighted  him.  She  was  proving  herself  entirely  feminine, 
after  all.  Even  when  in  her  deeply  emotional  way  she 
expressed  her  craving  for  home-building,  her  pride  in 

6  75 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

the  old-fashioned  house  hung  with  portraits  of  his  kin 
that  had  been  his  father's  home  and  would  now  be 
theirs  and  in  the  future  the  home  of  their  children,  St. 
Claire  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  disturbed.  His  face 
hardened  when  she  told  him,  "I  dream  of  our  love  some- 
times, and  when  I  wake — for  a  moment — I  feel  a  child's 
little  hand  striking  on  my  breast;  but  when  I  feel  for  it, 
it  is  gone." 

It  was  a  look  that  came  and  then  went  quickly,  that 
brilliant,  unmoved  expression  of  his.  Why  be  disturbed 
by  a  girl's  fancies?  What  she  needed  was  an  emotional 
outlet.  He  felt  secure  in  his  empire  over  her.  It  was 
inconceivable  that,  emotion  satisfied,  ambition  should 
not  assert  itself.  Having  grown  up  in  a  family  such  as 
Milenberg's,  she  was  certain  to  grasp  the  social  advantages 
he  would  give  her.  Her  ideas  would  change  with  her  en- 
vironment. Certainly  she  could  not  fill  the  place  he  in- 
tended she  should  and  retain  her  conception  of  their 
future.  Young  as  she  was,  he  intended  that  she  should 
be  a  social  leader.  His  wife  should  lead  socially,  and  he 
financially,  in  the  city  of  his  birth.  There  were  big  plans 
and  vast  ambitions  fomenting  in  St.  Claire's  brain. 

He  came  twice  before  the  fifteenth  of  November,  when 
he  took  his  bride  from  Milenberg's  arm.  They  were 
married  in  Chicago  in  the  most  fashionable  church  in 
the  city,  and  stared  at  by  several  hundred  faces — Milen- 
berg's huge  business  connection,  the  contingent  from  New 
Rome  that  came  with  a  certain  pleased  importance,  and 
a  number  of  St.  Claire's  friends. 

St.  Claire  looked  upon  the  wedding  as  engineered  by 
Milenberg  with  secret  contempt,  but  there  was  no  gain- 
saying the  fact  that  he  was  marrying  an  heiress,  and  in 
a  business  way  the  fact  was  of  great  importance;  the 
more  wide-spread  the  advertisement  given  it  the  better. 
St.  Claire  came  of  a  family  that  for  generations  had  ad- 
hered to  conventional  good  taste.  He  had  gradually 

76 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

and  skilfully  withdrawn  from  the  old  order  and  embraced 
the  new;  grafted  the  methods  of  the  omnivorously  ac- 
quisitive upon  the  old  tree  of  conservatism.  St.  Claire 
passed  gracefully  enough  through  the  ordeal. 

He  took  a  girl  who  was  so  imbued  with  the  tremendous 
import  of  the  future  that  she  was  white  and  dazed.  In 
the  last  weeks  they  did  with  her  what  they  would.  She 
was  very  young,  and  had  had  but  a  short  time  in  which 
to  collect  a  few  of  the  undigested  ideas  that  womanhood 
is  throwing  off  from  its  intensely  awakened  mentality. 
At  the  eleventh  hour  her  untried  convictions  failed  her. 
She  had  not  meant  to  be  loaded  with  an  army  of  trunks 
and  chests  of  lavish  gifts,  and  yet  without  even  an  in- 
come that  her  father  could  withdraw  at  will.  She  had 
not  meant  that  her  husband's  arms  should  close  on  her 
with  the  rattle  of  a  train  beneath  them,  even  though  the 
car  that  was  their  bridal  chamber  was  a  private  one, 
one  of  her  father's  many  bridal  gifts.  She  had  not  meant 
to  be  made  a  public  spectacle  of,  and,  above  all,  she  had 
not  intended  to  say  the  things  that  had  been  required  of 
her.  She  had  conceived  a  simple  ritual  to  which  she  could 
truthfully  acquiesce. 

All  things  were  different  from  what  she  intended;  only 
her  ideal,  withdrawn  deep  within  her,  persisted,  and  it 
was  that  that  rose  to  meet  her  husband's  possessive  kiss. 
What  did  it  matter,  all  this  paraphernalia  of  custom  with 
which  they  had  draped  her?  The  thing  that  beat  upon 
her  heart,  and  that  her  love  in  all  its  immensity  rose  to 
meet,  was  simply  part  of  the  tremendous  creative  force 
of  nature,  world-wide,  ages-old,  reaching  into  the  future 
far  beyond  human  ken.  ...  It  was  their  unity  of  purpose 
that  made  them  one — lovers  and  comrades  for  life — life- 
builders. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  had  sleeted,  then  rained,  sheathing  everything  in 
ice.  Alyth's  cab  had  come  slowly  up  the  long  slope 
of  the  Boulevard,  skidding,  in  spite  of  its  chained  wheels, 
as  it  drew  up  before  the  Imperial  Club.  Alyth  had  come 
direct  from  the  station  and  was,  as  he  knew,  on  time  for 
his  appointment. 

In  the  library  he  chose  a  seat  in  one  of  the  windows 
that  commanded  a  view  of  the  club  entrance.  It  was 
four  o'clock,  usually  the  hour  of  automobile  traffic  on 
the  Boulevard.  To-day  there  were  no  femininely  guided 
electric  broughams  with  their  fleeting  revelations  of  veils 
and  plumes,  otherwise  the  passing  and  repassing  was 
much  the  same  as  usual,  for  in  spite  of  the  slippery  pav- 
ing it  was  a  tempting  day  in  which  to  ride.  A  bitter 
morning  had  moderated  into  a  pleasant  afternoon,  not 
mild  enough  for  a  thaw,  but  sunny — a  glistening  world 
canopied  by  deep  blue. 

The  comfortable  atmosphere  of  the  club  was  welcome 
after  four  days  of  travel  across  the  plains,  so  Alyth  felt 
no  impatience  when  he  noticed  that  he  had  waited  half 
an  hour.  He  was  somewhat  lazily  occupied  with  his 
thoughts.  He  always  enjoyed  visiting  St.  Louis;  the 
city  impressed  him  as  Eastern  when  compared  with  the 
far  West.  It  boasted  mansions  half  a  century  old — like 
the  house  opposite,  which  was  a  huge  mansarded  struc- 
ture with  a  wide  flight  of  stone  steps  leading  up  to  its 
entrance.  It  was  perhaps  of  a  somewhat  later  period, 
1880,  possibly,  and  undoubtedly  had  been  a  grand  house 

78 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

in  its  day.  The  Boulevard  extended  miles  beyond  the 
club  now,  westward,  always  westward,  leaving  the  old 
homes  of  the  city  standing  like  grim-faced  widows  in 
rusty  weeds,  smudged  all  over  with  signs  -of  neglect. 
This  house,  Alyth  decided,  bore  the  marks  of  a  boarding- 
house.  It  had  uninviting  sash-curtains;  in  an  up-stairs 
window  was  perched  a  frightened-looking  milk-bottle, 
unmistakable  sign  of  the  unwelcome  boarding-house 
baby. 

Alyth  was  familiar  with  the  internal  architecture  of 
these  forsaken  old  homes:  walls  heavily  papered;  tall, 
narrow  windows  cumbered  with  Venetian  blinds,  smoth- 
ered in  lace  a  half -century  old,  and  side-hung  with  velvet ; 
a  tremendous  height  of  ceiling  corniced  and  dadoed; 
heavy  mantel-shelves  bearing  immense  mirrors  in  wide 
gilt  frames.  Inartistic,  certainly,  the  whole  effect,  within 
as  well  as  without,  but  possessed  of  dignity,  nevertheless. 
There  was  an  air  of  melancholy  about  the  gray  face  of 
the  house  opposite,  a  mute  indictment  of  a  rushing,  con- 
suming generation. 

Alyth  was  thinking  of  the  instability  of  the  American 
home,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a  splendidly 
appointed  car  that  had  drawn  up  at  the  club  entrance. 
The  woman  on  the  back  seat  evidently  did  not  shrink 
from  the  ice-chilled  air,  for  the  car  was  open.  Muffled 
in  fur  as  she  was,  Alyth  could  not  see  her  face.  The  man 
beside  her  sprang  out,  standing  for  a  moment  with  bared 
head,  talking  to  her.  Then  she  dropped  back  in  the  seat 
and  the  car  swept  on. 

Alyth  had  recognized  the  man — it  was  Karl  Janniss. 
Alyth  had  seen  him  some  six  weeks  before  in  New  York, 
and  he  remembered  now  that  Janniss  had  spoken  of  sev- 
eral Middle  West  commissions.  He  was  going  to  exhibit 
in  Chicago  and  St.  Louis,  he  had  told  Alyth.  During  the 
last  year  Alyth  had  seen  something  of  Janniss,  and  had 
found  him  companionable.  No  man  as  devoted  to  his 

79 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

profession  as  Alyth  could  help  respecting  the  artist's  talent 
and  his  tremendous  capacity  for  work. 

Alyth  thought  that  possibly  Janniss  was  bound  for  the 
billiard-room,  and  in  that  case  he  would  have  sent  a  page 
after  him.  But  Janniss  evidently  preferred  the  quiet  of 
the  library.  His  expressive  face  lighted  with  pleasure 
when  he  saw  Alyth. 

"You  here!"  he  exclaimed,  shaking  hands  cordially. 
"Of  all  the  surprises!" 

"I  have  an  appointment  with  Milenberg,"  Alyth  ex- 
plained. "He  is  late — an  unusual  thing  for  him." 

"Have  something  with  me,  then,"  Janniss  offered.  "I 
am  put  up  here,  though  most  of  the  time  I  am  at  the  St. 
Claires'.  I  am  painting  a  ward  of  St.  Claire's,  a  Miss 
Courland,  who  is  visiting  them." 

Alyth  indicated  the  house  opposite.  "When  did  they 
leave  the  St.  Claire  home?" 

"Last  spring,  I  believe — about  six  months  after  their 
marriage." 

"I  remember  this  old  house  very  well,"  Alyth  said. 
"It  impressed  me.  I  was  in  it  several  times  a  few  years 
ago — when  St.  Claire  first  went  in  for  mining  property. 
I  remember  the  walls  were  hung  with  portraits,  genera- 
tions of  St.  Claires,  and  a  splendid  thing  of  Justin  him- 
self, done  in  1900  by  Zorn.  There  was  a  full-length  por- 
trait of  his  mother,  too,  a  French  Creole,  St.  Claire  told 
me  she  was,  a  voluptuous  woman  with  brilliant  dark  eyes 
and  ripe  lips.  He  looks  much  more  like  her  than  like  his 
father.  His  father  was  thin-lipped  and  fair,  with  the 
look  of  a  Scotchman  about  "him,  and  I  know  there  is  a 
decided  Scotch  admixture  in  his  family." 

"St.  Claire  has  loaned  the  collection  to  the  Art  Museum 
here.  It's  something  of  an  advertisement,  of  course,  and, 
too,  they  would  be  out  of  keeping  with  the  white-and-gold 
and  old-rose  elegance  of  Woodmansie  Place." 

Alyth  noted  the  faint  sneer.  "Milenberg  tells  me  that 

80 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

the  St.  Claire  house  is  the  most  impressive  thing  in  the 
city,"  Alyth  remarked. 

Janniss's  brow  puckered  slightly.  "It's  a  thoroughly 
American  structure,  an  adaptation  from  something  or 
other  Colonial — big  pillars  supporting  an  upper  story  in 
front,  and  a  walled  courtyard  at  the  side.  At  any  rate, 
it  affords  superb  rooms  for  entertaining,  and  as  St.  Claire 
stands  forefront  now  in  the  moneyed  set,  that  is  an  im- 
portant item.  As  the  house  is  on  a  knoll  in  Woodmansie 
Place,  it  does  have  a  good  view — I'll  say  that  for  it."  He 
shrugged  slightly.  "It  is  ostentatious,  so  I  suppose  it  is 
'impressive.'" 

Janniss's  remarks  interested  Alyth.  From  Milenberg 
Alyth  had  gathered  that  he  was  deeply  pleased  with  his 
daughter's  marriage.  How  was  it  with  Myra  herself? 
Alyth  wondered.  He  had  thought  often  of  her,  the  girl 
of  eager  wishes  and  aspirations  who  had  chosen  him  for 
a  companion  at  New  Rome,  and  to  whom  he  had  spoken 
with  a  frankness  unusual  with  him.  She  had  changed 
greatly  if  such  a  home  pleased  her. 

"Was  the  place  Mrs.  St.  Claire's  choice?"  he  asked. 

"It  was  bought  ready-made,  I  believe,"  Janniss  re- 
turned, carelessly.  "How  long  will  you  be  here,  Alyth?" 

He  had  changed  the  subject  too  abruptly,  Alyth  thought, 
and  he  studied  him  in  his  coolly  critical  way.  The  young 
man  looked  exceedingly  well.  There  was  a  subdued  glow 
about  him,  an  almost  impassioned  energy.  Erect,  clean- 
featured,  blue-gray  eyes  under  a  square  brow,  a  shock  of 
fair  hair,  a  determined  chin,  and  a  mobile  mouth — a 
noticeable  young  man.  He  had  told  Alyth  once  that  he 
was  just  under  thirty;  he  looked  possibly  twenty-eight. 
Alyth  liked  him  for  a  certain  wholesome-mindedness  that 
in  spite  of  women's  flattery,  and  his  own  intense  appre- 
ciation of  the  sensuously  beautiful,  remained  unspoiled. 
He  painted  the  luxurious  and  the  purely  emotional  wom- 
an marvelously  well.  An  art  critic  had  once  remarked 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

to  Alyth,  "I  wonder  what  he  would  make  of  a  girl  with 
a  soul?"  And  Alyth  had  returned,  "Marry  her,  I  think." 
The  critic  had  laughed  as  at  a  good  joke,  and  Alyth  had 
not  troubled  to  explain  his  meaning. 

Alyth  dropped  the  subject  of  Myra  St.  Claire  for  the 
moment.  He  asked  Janniss,  instead,  about  his  work,  and 
Janniss  launched  out  instantly.  His  exhibits  had  been 
a  great  success.  Milenberg's  portrait  had  caused  much 
admiring  comment.  Miss  Courland's  portrait,  though  it 
had  so  far  been  seen  by  only  a  few,  was  being  talked 
about. 

"Because  I've  dared  to  paint  her  truthfully,  I  suppose," 
he  said,  with  a  flash  of  the  eye  and  a  squaring  of  his  de- 
termined-looking chin. 

"I've  heard  the  name  before,"  Alyth  said.  "Just  who 
is  she?" 

"St.  Claire's  sister-in-law — his  first  wife's  sister." 
There  was  a  suggestion  in  his  curt  speech  that  was  en- 
lightening. 

"Of  course.  I  remember  now.  .  .  .  Do  you  mean  that 
she  shows  signs  of  the  family  affliction?" 

"  No,  no. . . .  She  is  simply — well — emotionally  eccentric. 
She  has  kicked  the  shins  of  convention  occasionally,  which 
is,  of  course,  an  unpardonable  sin.  For  the  last  few  years 
she  has  lived  in  Paris.  It  is  her  money  and  her  family 
altitude  that  have  preserved  a  sort  of  position  for  her  here. 
Now  that  she  is  back  here,  and  to  stay,  Mrs.  St.  Claire 
has  been  seeing  her  through.  She  has  made  society 
swallow  Adele  Courland,  whether  it  liked  to  or  not." 

Alyth  looked  his  interest. 

"I'm  not  gossiping,  of  course,"  Janniss  continued,  more 
lightly.  "It's  simply  that  I've  been  painting  Miss  Adele 
Courland  pretty  continuously  for  some  weeks,  and  I  am 
full  of  my  subject." 

Alyth  led  back  to  the  things  that  interested  him  most. 
"Milenberg  is  here  a  good  deal,  isn't  he?" 

82 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"It's  more  his  home  than  Chicago,  I  think." 

"AndMrs.Milenberg?" 

"She  is  in  New  York  with  the  two  younger  girls.  They 
are  at  a  finishing-school,  I  believe." 

Then  Alyth  asked  his  question.  "Has  her  marriage 
changed  Mrs.  St.  Claire  much?" 

Janniss  had  witnessed  the  courtship  in  New  Rome; 
he  was  quite  observant  enough  to  have  drawn  conclusions. 
Janniss  finished  his  high-ball  and  set  the  glass  down. 

"She  appears  older,"  he  said,  briefly.  Then,  as  if  un- 
comfortable over  his  brevity,  he  became  more  diffuse. 
"She  does  a  tremendous  amount  socially,  you  know. 
She  is  considered  the  most  socially  ambitious  woman  in 
the  city,  and  she  already  pretty  much  leads.  She  strikes 
one  as  a  bit  unique  though,  young  and  clever  and  beau- 
tiful, with  the  most  'impressive'  house  in  the  place,  and, 
as  backing,  St.  Claire's  social  prestige  and  the  Milenberg 
money." 

The  young  man's  manner  was  so  determinedly  detached 
that  Alyth  dropped  the  subject.  He  spoke  instead  of 
St.  Claire.  ' '  From  what  I  hear,  St.  Claire  is  making  money 
rapidly." 

"Yes,  he  and  Milenberg  appear  to  be  working  in  com- 
bination. St.  Claire  has  dropped  most  of  his  practice — 
or  rather  he  turns  over  to  his  firm  all  but  the  big  things 
that  take  him  to  Washington  and  New  York.  He  is  giv- 
ing most  of  his  time  to  finance." 

"It  has  always  had  a  fascination  for  him." 

"Is  he  really  fitted  for  it,  Alyth?"  Janniss  asked,  with 
a  touch  of  earnestness. 

"No,"  Alyth  said,  quietly. 

"I  am  no  judge — but  I  have  wondered.  .  .  .  You  know 
him  better  than  I." 

It  was  Alyth  now  who  changed  the  subject.  "Do  you 
happen  to  know  if  Milenberg  is  in  town  to-day?  It  is 
not  like  him  to  be  late  for  an  appointment.  He  tele- 

83 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

graphed  me  from  Chicago  to  meet  him  here  on  my  way 
east." 

"He  is  here — staying  at  the  St.  Claires'.  I  saw  him  at 
dinner  last  night.  .  .  .  And  there  he  is  in  person,"  Janniss 
said,  pointing,  "and  St.  Claire  with  him." 

A  car  was  depositing  two  men  at  the  door.  Even  with 
fur  collars  turned  up  and  caps  drawn  down  to  their  eyes, 
Milenberg's  short  figure  and  St.  Claire's  height  were  recog- 
nizable. Janniss  left  before  they  entered,  so  Alyth  was 
alone  when  they  came  in. 

"I  told  St.  Claire  you'd  be  here.  I've  never  known  you 
to  miss  an  appointment,"  was  Milenberg's  greeting.  "I 
know  I've  broken  my  good  record  to-day,  but  from  no 
fault  of  mine.  We  skidded  into  an  electric  pole  down 
there  and  just  missed  a  smash-up." 

St.  Claire  greeted  Alyth  with  his  usual  courtesy.  "I 
am  afraid  you  have  not  been  taken  care  of  since  you  came 
in.  If  the  pa'pers  are  right,  you  have  been  running 
through  a  blizzard  in  Kansas,  and  need  warming.  .  .  . 
What  will  you  have?" 

"Nothing,  thanks,"  Alyth  said.  "Janniss  has  been 
with  me  until  a  few  minutes  ago,  so  I  have  not  suffered." 

"Oh!    Well,  that's  good." 

Alyth  thought  of  St.  Claire,  as  he  had  of  Janniss,  that 
he  was  looking  extremely  well.  Alyth  had  not  seen  him 
since  their  meeting  in  New  Rome.  The  only  change 
sixteen  months  had  made  in  him  was  a  scarcely  percep- 
tible addition  in  weight,  and  a  touch  of  gray  over  his 
temples.  Except  in  a  strong  light  the  wrinkles  at  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes  were  not  noticeable.  He  was  as  splendid 
a  specimen  of  animal  perfection  as  ever;  handsomer,  if 
possible,  because  of  that  touch  of  gray.  Alyth  had  not 
expected  to  see  St.  Claire.  He  needed  no  more  than  St. 
Claire's  air  of  oneness  with  Milenberg  to  assure  him  that 
Janniss  was  right  when  he  said  that  the  two  were  in  com- 
bination. It  was  perhaps  as  well  for  St.  Claire  that  he 

84 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

was  Milenberg's  son-in-law,  Alyth  reflected,  for,  with  all 
his  astuteness,  he  was  not  a  match  for  the  elder  man. 

As  usual,  Milenberg  plunged  at  once  into  business. 
" You  telegraphed  to  'go  ahead,'"  he  said.  "Now  let's 
have  your  reasons." 

"In  six  months'  time  Tropeca  will  be  shipping  ore," 
Alyth  returned,  briefly. 

"  I  have  it  pretty  straight  that  Harmon  has  advised  the 
Morans  to  leave  it  alone." 

"Harmon's  mistaken.  Lay  your  hands  on  all  you  can 
is  my  advice." 

"And  I  always  take  it,  don't  I?  I'd  no  sooner  put 
your  telegram  down  than  I  telegraphed  Parsons  to  'go 
ahead,'  as  you  said;  but  now  your  reasons,  man — your 
reasons!" 

Alyth  gave  them  succintly,  and  almost  at  the  first  word 
Milenberg's  eyes,  though  immovably  fixed  on  him, 
dimmed  slightly,  the  sign  with  him  of  intent  thought. 
He  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence  after  Alyth  had  finished, 
then  without  a  word  he  was  up  and  off,  not  hurriedly, 
briskly  only. 

St.  Claire's  and  Alyth's  eyes  met,  and  St.  Claire  laughed. 
"The  telephone,"  he  said,  and  Alyth  nodded.  St.  Claire 
talked  of  nothings  with  his  usual  graceful  air  until  Milen- 
berg returned,  and  then  there  was  only  an  instant's  hesi- 
tation in  his  cordial  seconding  of  Milenberg's  suggestion 
that  Alyth  dine  with  them  at  Woodmansie  Place. 

If  St.  Claire's  distrust  of  him  had  mattered  in  the  least, 
Alyth  would  have  declined.  But  he  wanted  greatly  to 
go.  He  wanted  to  see  Myra  St.  Claire.  He  had  often 
wondered  what  sixteen  months  of  contact  with  Justin 
St.  Claire  had  done  to  the  girl  who  had  chosen  him  as 
temporary  confidant.  Janniss's  studied  air  of  detachment 
had  only  increased  his  interest.  He  accepted  with  thanks. 

"Why  not  come  on  out  with  us,  then?"  Milenberg  said, 
hospitably.  "We'll  send  down  for  your  luggage." 

85 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Of  course.  Why  should  you  go  down-town  again?" 
St.  Claire  exclaimed. 

But  that  Alyth  declined.  His  wish  to  see  Myra  did 
not  cany  him  to  the  point  of  consenting  to  sleep  under 
St.  Claire's  roof.  Besides,  there  was  a  woman  whom  he 
wished  to  visit — if  she  was  in  the  city.  Whom  he  had 
always  visited  when  he  came.  To  Alyth  she  was  part  of 
the  city,  connected  with  every  recollection  he  had  of  the 
place. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  intervening  two  hours  had  sped  so  rapidly  that 
when  again  borne  up  the  Boulevard  Alyth  feared  he 
would  be  late  for  dinner;  as  it  was  not  a  clear  night,  the 
slippery  street  made  travel  slower  than  usual.  When 
his  taxicab  reached  the  Park  and  passed  the  monument 
that  did  sentinel  duty  at  its  entrance,  the  Boulevard 
lay  straight  before  him,  a  glistening  way  lined  with 
lights,  apparently  leading  direct  to  the  towers  of  the 
university.  The  sunset  glow  had  not  yet  left  the  hori- 
zon, but  was  shrunk  to  a  gash  of  crimson,  a  hot  throat 
revealed  between  parted  lips.  Against  it  the  two  towers 
of  the  university  stood  out  like  jagged  teeth  upthrust 
from  a  somber  jaw.  They  appeared  to  be  speeding  into 
a  glowing  maw. 

The  illusion  vanished  on  reaching  the  university 
grounds,  for  now  the  towers  winged  by  their  quadrangle 
showed  distinctly.  Alyth  passed  then  "places"  that  were 
indicated  by  pillared  and  lighted  entrances,  the  marvel- 
ous growth  of  a  few  years'  time,  the  ambitious  western 
outreach  of  the  city.  Several  were  as  yet  places  in  the 
making,  tenanted  only  by  a  mansion  or  two. 

Woodmansie  Place  was  beyond,  and  still  in  the  country, 
woodland  lying  between  it  and  the  outer  limits  of  the 
city.  The  St.  Claire  house,  well  lighted  and  solidly 
crowning  its  own  particular  knoll,  stood  foremost,  and 
even  in  the  dimness  Alyth  could  see  that  it  was  an  im- 
posing structure.  The  lights  in  the  portico  revealed  the 
pillars  of  which  Janniss  had  spoken.  Looking  behind 

8? 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

him  as  he  came  up  the  driveway,  Alyth  could  see  the 
vast  reaches  of  the  city,  a  foreground  of  scattered  lights 
wide  in  extent,  and,  beyond  that,  massed  lights  banked 
to  the  eastern  sky-line. 

A  car  had  slipped  by  him  as  he  turned  into  the  drive- 
way, and  was  preceding  him  up  the  slope.  When  he 
gained  the  level  it  had  deposited  its  occupant,  a  woman, 
as  Alyth  could  see  fleetingly,  and  was  circling  the  walled 
courtyard  on  its  way  to  the  huge  garage  beyond.  Alyth 
guessed  that  Myra  St.  Claire  was  only  a  moment  before 
him;  he  was,  at  any  rate,  no  later  than  his  hostess. 

When  he  was  ushered  in  by  the  much-liveried  footman, 
Milenberg  was  asking  for  her.  "What  keeps  Mrs.  St. 
Claire?"  he  was  demanding.  He  greeted  Alyth  with  his 
usual  lack  of  ceremony.  "Hello,  Alyth!  You  didn't 
happen  to  pass  a  breakdown  on  your  way  out  here,  did 
you?" 

"Madame  est  arrivee.  Elle  va  descendre  immtdiate- 
ment,"  the  footman  said. 

At  Milenberg's  blank  and  irritated  look  the  butler 
who  guarded  the  drawing-room  door,  interpreted,  with 
dignity,  "Madame  has  just  entered,  monsieur.  She  will 
descend  in  a  moment." 

"Oh,  very  well,  very  well,  Nicole,"  said  Milenberg. 
"I  thought  it  was  only  a  taxi  I  heard." 

"Mine,"  Alyth  said. 

St.  Claire  came  forward  then,  and  brought  Alyth  to 
the  group  at  the  fireside — Karl  Janniss,  a  little  white- 
haired  woman  with  dark,  sparkling  eyes,  and  a  young 
woman  in  red — a  black-and-white  creature  with  indom- 
itable eyes  and  a  scarlet  mouth. 

"My  cousin,  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice — and  Miss  Cour- 
land,"  St.  Claire  said. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  gave  Alyth  a  small  hand  that 
was  hard  in  spite  of  its  glove,  and  after  a  brightly  ap- 
praising glance,  which  Alyth  returned  with  one  as  critical, 

88 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

she  took  up  again  her  animated  conversation  with  St. 
Claire.  Alyth  had  frequently  heard  of  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice.  Adele  Courland's  hand  was  ungloved  and  clung 
a  little  in  its  touch.  She  enveloped  Alyth  in  her  gaze,  a 
consuming  survey,  before  she  took  possession  of  him. 
Janniss  had  been  seated  beside  her;  he  stood  now  with 
Alyth  as  the  latter  drank  his  cocktail. 

"You  were  in  Paris  about  this  time  last  year,  were  you 
not?"  she  asked,  and,  at  Alyth's  surprised  acknowledg- 
ment, smiled.  "You  are  asking  yourself,  'Oil?'  are  you 
not,  monsieur?  ...  I  will  supply  you  with  the  setting — 
the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  Your  table  adjoined  mine.  You 
were  with  an  American  lady  who,  when  she  rose  and 
passed  out  with  you,  was  noticed  by  every  one  in  the 
room — une  femme  magnifique!  .  .  .  N'est  pas,  monsieur?" 
She  had  spoken  softly;  now  she  laughed  also  in  the  same 
subdued  way.  Her  voice  was  pitched  so  that  St.  Claire 
and  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  could  not  hear. 

Janniss  had  heard,  and  was  looking  interestedly  from 
Alyth  to  Adele.  He  was  wondering  whether  she  meant 
to  be  malicious  or  only  whimsical.  He  had  learned  to  in- 
terpret her  with  some  accuracy,  but  this  attack  upon  a 
stranger  puzzled  him.  That  Alyth  thought  her  remarks 
significant  was  evident,  for  his  brows  lowered  for  a  mo- 
ment ominously.  His  glance  at  St.  Claire  was  a  swift 
one,  instantly  controlled. 

"Your  memory  for  faces  is  remarkable,  mademoiselle," 
he  returned,  then,  equably. 

"Oh  que,  non!"  she  declared.  "Usually  I  am  distrait, 
— but  madame  was  remarquable—she  would  be  noticed 
anywhere."  She  was  demure  now,  and  slightly  shrug- 
ging, carrying  off  well  the  air  of  a  Frenchwoman  that 
Janniss  had  seen  her  assume  before. 

Alyth  was  about  to  answer  when  they  were  inter- 
rupted by  Myra's  entrance.  Her  change  of  toilette  must 
have  been  as  swift  as  an  impersonator's,  possibly  be- 

89 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

cause  the  columnar  thing  she  wore  was  apparently  as 
easy  to  don  as  a  child's  slip,  its  severity  being  relieved 
only  by  a  clinging  gossamer  of  silver.  She  wore  no  jewels 
or  ornament  of  any  kind,  except  in  her  hair.  Its  soft 
abundance  looked  as  if  a  hurried  hand  had  swept  it  from 
her  forehead,  then  let  it  fall  in  light  waves  on  either 
side  of  her  face,  its  thick  coil  held  in  place  by  a  silver 
spear.  Alyth,  in  his  intent  survey,  observed  that  she  was 
even  more  slender  than  as  he  remembered  her;  in  ex- 
quisite tinting  and  delicate  curves  an  arresting  woman. 
There  was  no  longer  anything  girlish  about  her. 

But  it  was  her  expression  that  had  changed  most.  As 
she  bent  to  take  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  hand,  oblivious 
so  far  of  his  presence,  Alyth  absorbed  her  new  aspect. 
Her  most  pronounced  expression  was  of  immobility.  Her 
very  perfect  features  with  their  delicate  regularity  lent 
themselves  easily  to  carven  stillness;  her  soft,  deeply 
curved  mouth  most  of  all.  Her  eyes  even  had  changed; 
the  lids  drooped  more.  It  was  only  when  she  lifted  and 
met  his  eyes  that  hers  widened,  and  Alyth  saw  the  old 
questioning  spirit  leap  up  in  them. 

"They  didn't  tell  me  you  were  here!"  she  said  as  she 
offered  her  hand.  "I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again." 
When  she  turned  to  make  her  apology  to  the  group  her 
color  had  deepened.  "I  am  sorry  to  be  late — the  streets 
are  so  bad  we  were  forced  to  come  slowly." 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  had  an  accident,"  her  father  said. 
"Justin  declared  you  were  safe,  but  I  was  getting  regularly 
fidgety." 

"  I  thought  you  were  too  sensible  to  spoil  a  good  dinner 
by  nervousness,"  Myra  returned,  in  the  smoothly  spoken 
way  that  Alyth  remembered  he  had  at  one  time  thought 
sarcastic  and  had  discovered  was  a  cover  for  excitement 
or  mental  disturbance  of  some  sort.  "I  told  Nicole  I 
would  make  the  announcement.  Shall  we  go  in?" 

Alyth  hoped  that  he  might  be  seated  beside  her,  and 

90 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

was  disappointed.  Her  father  was  seated  at  her  right, 
Alyth's  place  being  between  him  and  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice.  Janniss  was  at  Myra's  left,  and  St.  Claire  be- 
tween Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  and  Adele  Cotirland.  Myra 
evidently  did  not  want  to  talk  to  him  at  table,  for  she 
allowed  first  Milenberg,  then  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice,  to 
monopolize  him.  She  was  a  skilful  hostess,  however,  for 
when  Milenberg,  who,  as  usual,  plunged  into  business, 
held  him  too  long,  she  drew  him  into  conversation  with 
Janniss,  and  started  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  on  a  subject 
upon  which  she  was  interesting — the  early  history  of  the 
city  when  the  Mississippi  built  up  fortunes  for  the  river- 
men.  She  had  things  to  say  of  the  days  when  the  aris- 
tocracy of  the  city  summered — not  in  Europe — but  on 
the  heights  above  the  river,  and  from  their  wide  verandas 
watched  the  heat  shimmer  over  the  blue  line  of  Illinois 
shore;  when  the  huge  city  cemeteries  were  not,  and  youth 
and  fashion  rode  gaily  along  Bellefontaine  Road.  She 
was  a  child  of  twelve  when  the  war  broke,  and  a  wife 
during  the  early  days  of  reconstruction. 

Alyth  was  as  much  entertained  by  the  little  old  lady's 
personality  as  by  her  conversation.  She  was  affectedly 
French,  with  the  evident  intent  to  appear  an  Americanized 
Frenchwoman.  The  truth  was  that  by  ancestry  she  was 
a  deal  more  Irish  than  French,  a  fact  that  she  did  not 
advertise.  She  was  nearing  seventy,  little  and  thin, 
small-featured,  and  with  a  complexion  that  by  some 
French  miracle  was  fresh-colored  and  without  wrinkles. 
Her  glittering  gown  was  as  demonstrative  of  the  fewest 
number  of  yards  in  which  the  human  figure  may  be 
sheathed  as  Myra's  or  Adele  Courland's,  the  diamond- 
dusted  aigrette  that  nodded  amid  her  white  hair  a  saucy 
defiance  flung  at  age.  Her  back  was  as  straight  and  her 
head  as  erect  as  St.  Claire's. 

She  told  Alyth  that  she  had  lived  over  half  a  century 
in  St.  Louis.  She  did  not  need  to  tell  him  that  she  had 

7  91 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

been  a  personage  in  this  city  of  her  birth.  Of  late  years 
she  had  lived  in  New  York  and  Paris,  declaring,  as  she 
did  now  to  Alyth,  that  her  home  city  had  become  so 
declasse  that  she  could  no  longer  endure  more  than  a 
month's  visit  with  her  cousins  St.  Claire. 

"If  I  must  advance — or  retrograde — with  the  times,  I 
prefer  to  do  it  where  the  movement  is  as  rapid  as  possible 
— in  New  York.  My  stay  in  Paris  each  year  is  simply 
to  get  the  breath  of  American  steam-engine  activity  out 
of  my  nostrils  for  a  time." 

"I  have  heard  of  your  salon — on  Riverside  Drive," 
Alyth  said,  with  one  of  his  vivid  glances  in  which  lurked 
the  imp  of  mischief. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  hands  came  up.  "Salon!  A 
Dieu  ne  plaise!  ...  So  that  is  what  they  say  of  me,  is  it, 
because  I  have  held  a  few  little  symposiums  on  '  progress '  ? 
.  .  .  You  see,  the  world  is  now  so  crowded  with  beings 
longing  for  self-expression.  Every  one  is  an  individu- 
alistic individual.  Ordinarily  I  dine,  go  to  the  theater, 
and  sup,  I  luncheon  and  whist,  like  any  other  conser- 
vative; but  occasionally  I  bring  together  some  of  these 
many  self-expressionists  who  crowd  the  world  that  they 
may  unfold  their  individual  individualistics.  When  I 
think  of  my  grandmothers!  Turned  out  of  the  same 
little  molds,  and  the  molds  set  away  to  be  used  again 
for  their  daughters!  .  .  .  Tell  me,  my  friend,  do  you  trot?" 
She  studied  him  brightly  over  the  play  of  her  iridescent 
fan. 

"No;  though  the  thing  pulls  at  me.  So  far  I  have 
only  watched  the  genuflexions  at  Bustanoby's — and  else- 
where." 

"So  have  the  rest  of  us — and  have  taken  lessons  on 
the  sly.  Whist  is  becoming  intolerable.  What  is  it — the 
itching  in  our  brains  creeping  into  our  feet?" 

"Possibly.  I've  watched  the  indications.  We  have 
overcrowded  ourselves  with  ideas,  sent  our  brains  madly 

92 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

adventuring,  while  endeavoring  to  bring  our  bodies  to  the 
height  of  animal  perfection.  We  are  all  alike  looking 
for  an  emotional  outlet — we  are  ready  for  a  debauch,  an 
eruption  of  the  savage.  Next  season,  nineteen  hundred 
and  thirteen,  will  show  us." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  eyes  twinkled;  this  man 
pleased  her.  "You  are,  of  course,  a  feminist,  mon  ami?" 

"No;  I  am  a  geologist,"  Alyth  replied,  his  eyes  laughing 
with  the  laughter  in  hers. 

She  made  a  moue.  "Ugh!  You  are  all  alike,  of  the 
stone  age — you  men.  .  .  .  Take,  for  example,  my  dear 
cousin  Justin,  who  by  skilful  gilding  has  made  the  stone  of 
his  composition  appear  a  malleable  metal.  He  has  per- 
suaded the  world  and  himself  that  he  is  progressive.  But 
all  his  vision  has  succeeded  in  grasping  is  the  present-day 
urge  to  financial  altitude.  Think  of  Justin,  with  the  family 
he  has  behind  him,  competing  with  these  nouveau  riche! 
Who  ever  heard  of  these  people  out  here  in  Woodmansie 
Place?  What  do  you  suppose  built  this  house?  Bis- 
cuits! Crackers!  And  Justin,  if  you  please,  turns  his 
back  on  his  father's  home  and  buys  it.  He  was  in  too 
much  of  a  hurry  even  to  build  for  himself.  He  is  con- 
vinced that  he  is  marching  in  quick-step  with  the  times. 
But'1 — and  she  enforced  her  point  by  the  pressure  of  her 
bony  forefinger  on  Alyth's  arm — "just  scratch  Justin, 
and  it  will  be  his  grandfather  you  will  find!  .  .  .  I'm  a  bit 
skeptical,  of  course,  one  encounters  so  many  throw-backs 
to  Eve,  still  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  is  women  who  arc 
fashioning  themselves  whole  out  of  new  material.  Take 
our  little  hostess,  for  instance;  she  is  in  the  making." 
She  nodded  decidedly,  the  look  she  gave  Alyth  grown  sud- 
denly keen.  "We  shall  see  what  we  shall  see!"  When 
much  in  earnest  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  lost  her  French 
air. 

Alyth  would  have  argued  the  point  with  her  for  the 
sake  of  hearing  more  of  Myra,  had  not  a  manceuver  of 

93 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Janniss's  brought  Milenberg  and  business  upon  him  again. 
Myra  had  evidently  gathered  what  was  being  said,  and 
had  kept  her  father's  attention  engaged,  but  now  Janniss, 
who  was  evidently  assisting  her,  utilized  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice's  pause  to  take  Adele  Courland  from  St.  Claire. 
St.  Claire  turned  immediately  to  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice, 
and  Myra  was  free  to  lean  back  in  her  seat.  Janniss  had 
probably  observed,  as  Alyth  had,  that  she  looked  very 
tired.  Her  delicate  color  had  faded;  there  were  blue 
shadows  beneath  her  eyes,  and  her  mouth  drooped.  Ex- 
cept for  her  wide,  indifferent  glance  that  did  not  seem  to 
see,  she  gave  no  recognition  to  the  faint  sneer  and  the 
smoldering  look  that  Adele  bestowed  upon  Janniss,  in  re- 
payment evidently  for  an  unwelcome  interruption. 

"Oh  no,  Mr.  Janniss!  .The  modern  romance  runs  thus: 
heroically  discard  the  impecunious  suitor  in  favor  of  the 
man  of  advantages.  Then  have  an  affair  of  the  heart 
with  the  discarded  one.  Divorce  then  the  man  of  ad- 
vantages and  marry  the  man  of  one's  heart — but  first 
secure  a  substantial  settlement." 

Just  what  Janniss  had  said  to  call  forth  the  retort 
Alyth  had  not  heard.  Alyth  was  receiving  a  set  of  im- 
pressions that  he  would  ponder  later.  He  was  wondering 
just  then  what  Myra  was  thinking  as  her  slow  gaze  trav- 
eled around  the  table  and  rested  in  an  expressionless 
way  upon  her  husband,  and  then  upon  the  strange  woman 
at  his  side.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  eyes  had  also  fre- 
quently rested  on  them.  Certainly  in  both  appearance 
and  deportment  Adele  Courland  riveted  attention.  She 
may  at  one  time  have  been  St.  Claire's  ward;  she  could 
not  be  now,  for  she  was  certainly  twenty-eight  or  thirty. 
She  was  extraordinarily  thin,  and  with  a  mouth  so  vividly 
red  that  it  was  like  a  wound  in  white  flesh.  White  she 
was  to  the  point  of  pallor,  and  crowned  with  blue-black 
hair.  Intense  as  was  the  contrast,  it  was  dominated  by 
her  eyes.  Immense,  black  and  brilliant,  and  set  beneath 

94 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

a  broad  sweep  of  black  brows,  they  were  astonishing. 
They  looked  as  if  a  craving,  imprisoned  woman,  the  more 
vital  for  being  attenuated,  was  ready  to  spring  out  of 
their  depths.  She  was  swathed  in  red  shot  with  gold, 
a  gown  without  girdle  that  flexed  with  every  turn,  its 
glitter  enhancing  the  impression  of  a  mere  sheath  to 
rippling  movement.  She  sat  most  of  the  time  with  elbow 
on  the  table,  the  attitude  of  the  confirmed  restaurant- 
frequenter,  and,  when  talking  to  St.  Claire,  bent  close, 
and  with  gaze  only  for  him.  The  moment  she  could 
turn  from  Janniss  she  again  claimed  St.  Claire. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  shrugged  slightly  as  she  turned 
back  to  Alyth,  but  though  the  glance  she  gave  him  sparkled 
with  meaning,  she  refrained  from  remark.  Possibly  it 
was  irritation,  or  amusement,  or  both,  that  made  her  ask 
Milenberg  what  he  thought  of  the  militant  movement. 
When  the  millionaire  dryly  recommended  marriage  as  a 
cure,  she  executed  one  of  the  mental  somersaults  to  which 
she  appeared  to  be  subject,  and  questioned  him  sweetly 
on  "lobbying"  as  a  regular  political  procedure. 

Milenberg  took  the  cigar  from  his  lips  and  fixed  her 
with  his  steel-pointed  gaze.  "I  don't  know  much  about  it 
from  personal  experience,"  he  said,  equably.  "I  never 
had  it  practised  on  me,  but  a  friend  of  mine  out  West 
had.  In  his  state  a  party  of  ladies  went  up  to  the  legis- 
lature to  get  a  clause,  or  something  or  other,  incorporated 
into  a  bill.  But  they  didn't  have  much  success — though 
the  ladies  did  argue  a  good  deal.  .  .  .  Well,  one  evening 
my  friend  came  out  of  his  room  in  the  hotel  and  met  one 
of  the  ladies  in  the  hall — the  ladies  were  put  up  at  the 
same  hotel  as  the  legislators — and  she  was  sidling  along, 
looking  distressed.  Of  course  he  stopped  to  ask  what 
was  the  matter,  and  finally,  after  some  parleying  and 
eyelash  work,  she  confessed  that  there  were  four  hooks 
at  the  very  top  of  her  waist  that  she  couldn't  reach — 
'bodice,'  he  said  she  called  it — and  none  of  the  ladies 

95 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

were  about  to  help  her.  She  was  little,  and  had  big  blue 
eyes,  he  said,  the  only  pretty  one  of  the  lot.  He  told  her 
he  was  good  at  that  sort  of  thing — always  did  it  for  his 
wife — and  so  she  turned  shyly  around,  and  my  friend 
set  to  work.  He  said  they  were  the  most  complicated 
hooks  he  had  ever  come  across,  and  just  how  it  happened 
he  didn't  know,  but  by  the  time  he  had  finished  he'd 
promised  his  vote.  He  kept  still  about  it,  though.  .  .  . 
Well,  when  the  bill  came  up  the  ladies  won  out — to  the 
surprise  of  everybody — and  then  the  lawmakers  began 
to  compare  notes  and  found  that  every  one  of  them  had 
helped  to  fasten  up  that  '  bodice. '  ...  As  I  say,  I've  had 
no  personal  experience,  but  I  should  call  that  'lobbying.' " 
Milenberg  flashed  a  glance  at  his  son-in-law  and  put  his 
cigar  back  between  his  lips. 

In  the  general  laughter  even  Myra  lost  her  look  of 
weariness.  Though  aroused,  she  did  not  laugh,  the  swift 
look  she  cast  upon  her  father,  and  then  on  her  husband, 
being  as  devoid  of  mirth  as  the  glance  Milenberg  had  ex- 
changed with  St.  Claire.  St.  Claire  was  rallying  Mrs. 
Du  Pont-Maurice,  and  under  cover  of  his  teasing  and  her 
repartees  Myra  talked  to  Janniss,  low  and  earnestly. 
Janniss's  steadfast  look  absorbed  her,  for  with  the  color 
warm  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  wide  and  questioning, 
she  was  very  beautiful.  At  St.  Claire's  request  they  were 
having  coffee  in  the  dining-room,  and  Myra,  who  had 
lighted  her  cigarette  with  the  rest,  was,  in  the  interest 
of  her  talk  with  Janniss,  allowing  it  to  die  between  her 
fingers. 

Alyth  sat  observant  through  it  all.  Myra  had  scarcely 
a  word  for  him,  and  when  they  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  she  seated  herself  beside  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice, 
Alyth's  disappointment  deepened  into  actual  hurt.  He 
wanted  intensely  to  talk  with  her;  his  desire  had  grown 
with  every  moment  that  had  passed.  This  was  a  woman 
to  be  discovered  anew.  She  had  left  the  girl  he  remem- 

96 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

bered  far  behind.  It  was  plain,  however,  that  she  meant 
to  avoid  him,  so  it  was  with  relief  Alyth  found  that 
Milenberg  had  an  appointment  down-town.  It  was  St. 
Claire  who  told  him. 

"I  ought  to  go,  too,"  St.  Claire  said,  "but  for  once  I 
mean  to  cut  a  business  meeting — it's  only  the  fourth 
this  week!"  and  he  shrugged  in  well-assumed  disgust. 

Alyth's  quick  wits  enlightened  him.  "I'll  not  furnish 
you  with  an  excuse,"  he  returned,  promptly.  "I  have 
been  wondering  if  one  of  you  would  not  be  going  into  the 
city,  and  would  take  me  along."  It  had  occurred  to  Alyth 
suddenly  that  St.  Claire  meant  he  should  not  talk  with 
his  wife.  It  was  he  who  had  suggested  their  having 
coffee  at  table,  and  had  kept  them  as  long  as  possible  in 
the  dining-room.  In  swallowing  his  dislike  of  St.  Claire 
and  entering  his  house  he  had  shown  his  interest  too 
plainly.  Justin  St.  Claire  was  always  on  his  guard;  it 
was  his  old  distrust  revived;  it  could  hardly  be  jealousy. 
The  way  in  which  St.  Claire  had  covered  his  wish  to  speed 
the  parting  guest  was  so  like  him. 

Myra's  parting,  like  her  greeting,  was  a  simple  one, 
quietly  spoken:  "I  am  glad  to  have  seen  you.  I  am  glad 
you  came." 

It  was  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  who  was  cordial.  "I 
go  from  here  direct  to  Paris,  but  next  winter  you  are 
coming  to  see  me  in  New  York,  are  you  not?  I  shall  be 
at  home  in  December,  as  usual.  You  will  find  me  a  good 
hostess,  and  an  even  better  friend." 

Alyth  promised;  he  liked  the  sparkling  little  woman. 
He  took  his  thoughts  back  with  him  then  to  his  hotel, 
and  smoked  over  them.  Something  of  a  mess  that  was 
he  had  left  behind  him!  Alyth  had  friends  in  the  city — 
he  had  acquaintances  everywhere — but  he  was  in  no  mood 
for  society.  Dissatisfaction  had  its  grip  on  him,  and 
without  reason,  Milenberg  would  have  argued,  for  George 
Alyth  had  been  very  successful  in  the  last  two  years.  He 

97 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

was  a  recognized  authority  now,  almost  as  well  known  in 
Europe  as  in  America,  for  his  South  American  operations 
had  brought  him  into  prominent  notice.  And  he  had  made 
money  for  himself  as  well  as  for  others.  He  was  investing 
now  in  sections  of  the  West  that  in  time  would  make  him 
a  wealthy  man. 

Alyth  was  too  successful  and  too  absorbed  to  harbor 
dissatisfaction  frequently;  every  energy  he  possessed  was 
concentrated  upon  his  profession.  It  was  only  when  he 
thought  of  his  household  in  Manor  Park  Place  that  the 
deadening  sense  of  futility  took  hold  on  him,  for  he  had 
followed  the  line  of  least  resistance,  taken  the  middle 
course.  He  had  a  home  and  he  had  it  not,  and  on  the 
occasions  when  discontent  gripped  him  he  paraphrased 
the  biblical  quotation:  "What  does  it  profit  a  man  if 
he  gain  the  whole  world  —  and  have  no  satisfaction  in 
his  home?"  The  sight  of  Myra  Milenberg  had  brought 
back  the  days  of  alternate  disgust  and  conscientious 
endeavor. 

The  telephone  broke  in  on  his  thoughts.  He  was  sur- 
prised, for  aside  from  Milenberg  and  St.  Claire  there  was 
no  one  who  knew  where  he  was  stopping.  For  one  mo- 
ment he  did  not  know  the  woman's  voice: 

"Mr.  Alyth?" 

"Yes Mrs.  St.  Claire?" 

She  lacked  somewhat  of  her  usual  poise.  "Yes,  it  is 
I.  I — I  didn't  realize  that  I  should  not  see  you  again — " 
Then  she  caught  herself  up  and  spoke  with  all  of  her  old 
directness.  "I  was  about  to  prevaricate — forgive  me. 
.  .  .  When  you  were  here  I  felt  I  did  not  want  to  talk 
about — about  New  Rome.  You  were  no  sooner  gone 
than  I  wanted  to  do  that  very  thing.  That  is  like  a 
woman,  isn't  it?  It  is  characteristic  of  me  these  days — 
certainly.  ...  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to-morrow — not 
before  you  have  come  to  see  me,  at  any  rate?" 

Alyth's  surprise  made  him  even  more  succinct  than 

98 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

usual.  "I  have  engagements  until  three  in  the  after- 
noon." 

"And  after  that?" 

".I  can  come." 

"Between  four  and  five — ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  with  a  note  of  relief.  "Good- 
by." 

Alyth  had  mechanically  hung  up  the  receiver  before 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  not  been  at  all  gracious. 
But  he  had  been  so  completely  surprised. 


CHAPTER  X 

AL,YTH  was  shown  into  what  was  evidently  Myra's 
study,  a  room  over  the  portico.  When  Nicole  left 
him  in  a  place  that  was  expressive  of  Myra  he  felt  a  sense 
of  relief;  St.  Claire's  intrusive  presence  receded.  For 
this  room  was  in  somewhat  striking  contrast  to  the  os- 
tentatious elegance,  the  endimanche  effect  of  the  rest  of 
the  house.  This  was  a  livable  place.  The  walls  were 
wainscoted  with  bookshelves;  there  were  a  few  good 
water-colors  about,  and  a  number  of  Myra's  own  sketches 
that  showed  at  least  an  aptitude  for  drawing,  her  char- 
acteristic impression  of  warmth  and  color  being  supplied 
by  the  deeply  cushioned  couch  before  the  fire  and  several 
rich  rugs. 

Her  choice  of  books  interested  Alyth.  There  were 
numerous  old  and  new  friends  of  his  on  the  shelves,  and 
piles  of  magazines;  but  the  books  that  were  scattered 
about  as  if  recently  perused  were  mostly  of  one  nature, 
gospels  of  woman's  freedom,  her  recent  intellectual  out- 
put. On  a  shelf  near  the  fire  Alyth  noticed  sets  of  George 
Eliot,  George  Sand,  and  a  life  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  and 
sandwiched  between  them  several  volumes  of  Ellen  Key, 
and  Olive  Schreiner's  latest  contribution.  From  the  win- 
dow-seat he  picked  up  The  Man-Made  World,  and  was 
smiling  at  a  penciled  comment,  "Cold  sense,"  when  Myra 
came  in. 

He  called  her  attention  to  it.  "You  as  well  as  Mrs. 
Du  Pont-Maurice?"  he  asked,  lightly.  What  he  was 
thinking  was  that  she  was  glad  to  see  him;  she  left  him 

100 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

in  no  doubt  as  to  that;  both  her  look  and  her  flush  told 
him  so. 

She  sheered  from  the  subject  as  if  shy  of  discussion. 
"Yes.  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  seen  just  this  view  of  the  city?" 

As  Alyth  was  at  the  window  when  she  came  in,  her 
question  was  not  too  abrupt.  He  had  been  looking  at 
the  city,  its  myriad  roofs,  its  spires,  and  its  domes.  The 
university  towers  marked  the  westernmost  gateway;  the 
eastern  reaches  were  lost  in  the  smoke-cloud  that  hung 
above  the  city's  densest  activity.  Backgrounded  by  a 
murky  shroud,  the  great  snowy  dome  of  the  new  cathe- 
dral stood  out  distinct. 

"The  city  looks  a  huge  octopus  with  tentacles  stretched 
westward,  always  westward." 

"Yes,  and  the  sight  of  it  tires  rather  than  rests  me," 
Myra  said.  "I  like  it  better  at  night  when  there  are 
simply  the  lights." 

She  looked  weary  enough;  daylight  revealed  much  the 
candle-light  had  hidden.  She  was  changed,  startlingly 
so.  A  certain  restrained  vigor  that  had  marked  her  as 
a  girl  was  gone.  Her  voice  was  less  clear,  lower-pitched. 
She  was  thinner,  graver,  stiller — as  if  she  had  not  com- 
pletely recovered  from  an  illness.  Yet  there  was  a  some- 
thing about  her  that  appealed  to  Alyth  in  a  way  that 
her  abounding  youth  with  its  eager  demands  had  not. 

"You  are  changed.  Are  you  well?"  he  asked,  in  his 
usual  unadorned  way.  Why  play  at  formality?  They 
had  once  shown  each  other  their  thoughts  too  plainly 
for  that. 

"I  am  tired  to-day,"  she  returned,  quietly.  "I  am 
not  at  all  suited  for  the  way  in  which  we  live.  I  am 
learning  what  a  wearing  thing  it  must  be  to  a  man  to 
toil  in  a  profession  he  dislikes.  I  toil  over  society,  and  very 
successfully — I  suppose  because  I  am  my  father's  daugh- 
ter— but  my  heart  is  not  in  what  I  am  doing."  Her 
lips  smiled  at  him,  her  eyes  saying  other  things. 

101 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Alyth  realized  that  he  was  talking  to  maturity  now — 
a  woman  who  knew  how  to  guard  her  tongue.  There  had 
probably  been  more  of  impulse  in  her  telephone  message 
than  she  would  show  in  their  interview.  She  had  strug- 
gled against  her  desire  to  see  him,  and  had  finally  yielded ; 
there  was  certainly  something  she  wanted  of  him. 

"You  should  not  be  standing,  then,"  he  said. 

They  went  to  the  fire,  and  she  allowed  him  to  place 
pillows  for  her.  He  remained  standing,  for  with  the  rare 
tact  that  permits  a  man  to  shift  for  himself  and  as  pleases 
him  she  made  no  suggestions. 

"The  season  has  been  a  long  one,"  she  continued, 
"and  to  us  Lent  brings  very  little  rest.  The  last  year 
has  been  one  long  strain.  Throughout  the  summer,  ex- 
cept for  a  month  with  my  mother,  I  was  busied  over 
this  house,  getting  it  ready  for  the  autumn." 

"How  is  Mrs.  Milenberg?"  Alyth  asked.  "I  didn't 
know,  until  Janniss  told  me,  that  she  was  in  New  York." 

"Mother  is  as  usual.  I  hope  you  will  go  to  see  her. 
I  am  afraid  she  is  very  lonely  sometimes,  in  a  city  where 
she  knows  no  one.  In  sixteen  months  I  have  seen  my 
mother  only  once.  I  should  not  have  thought  that  pos- 
sible." She  had  good  control  over  her  features,  but  her 
voice  betrayed  her;  it  was  vibrant.  Alyth  had  thought 
the  night  before  that  she  looked  wretched;  he  was  very 
sure  of  it  now. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  go,"  he  promised.  "Your  father 
tells  me  he  is  here  a  great  deal  now." 

"Yes.  ...  It  seems  that  Justin  is  doing  what  he  has 
wanted  to  do  for  years — give  all  his  time  to  finance — 
and  he  and  father  appear  to  work  together  to  mutual  ad- 
vantage. It  was  a  great — surprise  to  me,  the  discovery 
that  Justin  was  as  eager  for  money-making  as  father 
— just  as  determined  to  push  to  the  front.  All  this  social 
effort,  this  house  and  its  flunkyism,  is  part  of  the  general 
scheme." 

102 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

There  was  plenty  of  quiet  scorn  edging  her  words. 
Under  all  her  poise  there  still  burned  the  old  spirit,  and 
Alyth  was  glad  that  she  had  not  lost  it ;  it  had  appeared 
so  thoroughly  a  part  of  her.  Disillusion  had  evidently 
left  her  with  a  wound  that  she  shrank  from  revealing, 
though  the  ache  of  it  showed  in  her  voice  and  her  eyes. 

"I  hear  on  all  sides  that  your  husband  is  very  suc- 
cessful." Alyth  was  sorry  that  she  felt  it  necessary  to 
talk  around  the  thing,  whatever  it  was,  that  she  wanted 
to  reach.  He  was  simply  following  her  lead. 

"Justin  is  living  the  life  that  pleases  him  best.  He 
has  always  craved  an — establishment.  He  delights  in 
society,  perhaps  because  he  is  so  wonderfully  suited  to 
its  demands."  If  her  characterization  was  an  arraign- 
ment, it  was  very  quietly  done.  She  spoke  in  a  detached 
enough  way.  , 

Alyth  became  a  little  more  personal.  "And  I  judge 
that  you  have  been  rapidly  collecting  the  pieces  to  your 
patchwork  quilt,"  he  remarked,  smilingly. 

"Yes,  but  stupidly,  without  any  pattern  planned,  and 
no  color  scheme." 

His  look  grew  as  grave  as  hers.  "And  I  am  doing  no 
better." 

"Are  you  not?" 

"No." 

"I  hoped  that  you  were.  ...  I  told  you  once  that  I 
had  an  amount  of  wretched  knowledge  that  troubled  me. 
During  these  last  sixteen  months,  when  I  have  been  out 
in  the  world  as  it  were,  and  forced  more  than  ever  to  do 
my  own  thinking,  I  have  been  putting  some  questions 
to  myself.  They  have  always  been  in  my  mind,  really. 
Most  of  my  acquaintances  are  married,  and  about  many 
of  them  I  am  forced  to  ask:  What  possible  significance 
can  the  coming  together  of  two  people  have,  if  there  is 
no  mutual  ideal?  If  their  conception  of  marriage  differs, 
is  their  union  anything  but  a  farce  ?  Is  not  their  continued 

103 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

union  really  something  worse  than  that — one  of  the 
things  our  thoughts  do  not  like  to  touch — a  thing  with- 
out an  atom  of  respect  to  grace  it?  My  observation  has 
led  me  to  feel  that  without  the  fundamental  necessity  of 
oneness  marriage  is  not  a  process  of  building  up,  but  of 
disintegration."  Though  perfectly  controlled,  she  was 
tense  enough  now.  Like  her  father,  she  never  fidgeted, 
so  her  hands  lay  in  her  lap,  but  Alyth  saw  that  they  were 
tightly  pressed. 

His  tanned  face  had  darkened.  "You  have  traveled 
far  in  a  short  time." 

"Are  my  questions  irrational?" 

"  I  asked  them  of  myself  day  in  and  day  out — for  years." 

Myra  straightened  abruptly.  "Yes — and  what  have 
you  done?" 

Alyth  knew  now  what  she  wanted.  He  had  proffered 
her  his  experience  once;  she  was  casting  about  for  guid- 
ance. Things  were  worse  with  her  than  he  had  thought. 

"I  have  done  nothing,"  he  answered,  steadily — "noth- 
ing but  compromise  with  my  convictions.  I  believe  in  the 
single  union,  in  husband  and  wife  holding  together,  in 
mutual  forbearance,  in  the  home  conserved.  I  believe 
it  is  the  only  solution,  the  only  firm  foundation  upon 
which  we  at  this  stage  of  our  development  can  build. 
I  believe  it.  However  far  afield  my  thoughts  and  my 
desires  wander,  I  always  return  to  that  conviction.  And 
yet,  coerced  by  circumstances,  driven  by  the  demands 
of  my  own  individuality,  I  have  compromised  with  my 
convictions.  Caroline  is  adamant  in  her  determination 
that  outwardly  the  family  be  kept  together,  and  prin- 
cipally for  monetary  reasons.  To  her  marriage  is  largely 
an  economic  contract.  And  as  marriage  is  arranged  at 
present  she  is  right.  But  I  cannot  conform  to  her  ideals 
— or  rather  to  her  lack  of  them.  I  have  tried  hard.  I 
cannot.  So  we  are  strangers,  she  and  I;  the  same  roof 
covers  us,  that's  all.  I  do  what  I  can  for  my  children; 

104 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

possibly  when  they  are  older  I  can  do  more;  I  simply 
cannot  give  them  up  utterly  to  their  mother's  training. 
.  .  .  My  quarrel  with  things  as  they  are  is  this:  The  half 
of  us  marry  wrongly — without  a  particle  of  sense,  igno- 
rantly  or  sordidly,  as  you  say,  without  'mutual  ideals,' 
without  any  'oneness  of  conception.'  I  sympathize  with 
those  in  whom  the  yeast  of  new  demands  is  fomenting 
— the  demands  that  men  and  women  shall  be  equals,  and 
be  judged  as  equals;  that  there  should  be  an  economic 
adjustment  making  such  a  thing  possible;  that  husband 
and  wife  should  be  mates,  mentally,  physically;  that 
they  should  come  together  with  the  same  ideals  and  live 
to  them,  and,  if  they  cannot,  they  should  be  helped  by 
the  law  to  part  and  seek  further  for  their  complements. 
.  .  .  And  yet,  at  the  same  time  that  I  itch  with  this 
epidemic  of  individualism,  I  see  its  dangers.  The  con- 
servative side  of  my  brain  points  out  that  the  adjustment 
has  not  yet  been  made — conditions  are  what  they  are; 
that  when  we  come  to  an  acting  basis  we  judge  and  are 
judged  by  the  time-honored  standards."  Alyth  shrugged, 
impatiently.  "And  as  a  result,  what  do  I  do?  Nothing. 
...  I  compromise  with  my  convictions,  live  as  many 
of  us  are  living — at  sixes  and  sevens!" 

As  Myra  looked  at  him  and  listened,  watching  the 
swift  changes  of  expression  that  crossed  his  lean,  dark 
face,  kindled  now  by  eagerness,  swept  again  by  disgust, 
or  made  tight-lipped  by  coldness,  she  thought  how  little 
he  had  changed.  His  was  not  a  nature  to  welcome  in- 
novations; rearing  had  its  strong  grip  on  him.  The 
thought  came  and  passed.  He  had  given  her  no  help, 
and  her  flush  of  eagerness  faded. 

"You  are  doing  probably,  to  the  best  of  your  ability, 
the  thing  that  seems  to  you  right — as  are  others,"  she 
said,  slowly.  "With  you  it  may  be  the  impossibility  of 
intimate  contact  with  a  sordid  nature.  With  another  it 
may  be  detestation  of  a  hypocrisy  so  subtle  that  it  amounts 

105 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

almost  to  genius.  To  live  side  by  side  with  a  gilded  lie 
is  horrible.  .  .  .  Yet  both  are  grievances  that  in  the  old 
order  were  considered  unjustifiable;  there  has  been  no  pro- 
vision made  for  such  trifles.  And  the  old  order  con- 
strains us  still — those  of  us  who  are  conscientious.  We 
hesitate,  we  reproach  ourselves,  we  want  intensely  to  do 
what  is  right — and  end  by  compromising  with  our  con- 
victions." She  spoke  lifelessly,  colorlessly. 

Alyth  was  silent.  She  had  told  him  everything,  and 
yet  nothing.  He  understood;  she  was  enveloped  by  the 
huge  fabrication  that  was  Justin  St.  Claire,  and  was 
smothering — a  consequence  natural  to  an  open  nature. 

He  refrained  from  showing  her  how  completely  he 
understood,  for  of  what  use  would  it  be?  He  had  just 
proved  his  inability  to  either  advise  or  assist. 

But  he  was  intensely  sorry  for  her.  The  fears  he  had 
had  in  New  Rome  were  realized.  With  her  father  and 
St.  Claire  both  against  her,  and  without  any  tangible 
grievance  as  the  world  would  see  it,  what  chance  was 
there  for  her  to  come  out  of  it  all?  She  would  either 
wear  herself  out  with  dissatisfaction  and  fall  back  upon 
a  deadening  indifference,  or  complete  the  matrimonial 
quadrilateral — turn  to  St.  Claire's  antithesis.  At  the 
club  it  had  occurred  to  Alyth  that  Janniss  was  interested 
in  St.  Claire's  wife;  the  indications  had  not  gone  unnoticed. 
Later,  at  dinner,  Alyth's  observations  led  him  to  think 
that  it  was  a  young  man's  infatuation  for  a  woman  who 
was  so  wrapped  in  her  unhappiness  that  she  was  scarcely 
aware  of  him.  What  he  was  thinking  now  was  that  here 
was  plentiful  material  for  a  "situation" — St.  Claire's  op- 
posite, primed,  close  at  hand. 

The  thought  tormented  him,  and  though  he  sat  with 
Myra  until  the  room  darkened,  he  received  no  reassur- 
ance. Urged  by  his  discomfort,  Alyth  introduced  Janniss's 
name,  with  only  the  doubtful  satisfaction  of  seeing  her 
face  brighten. 

1 06 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Think  of  possessing  a  talent  such  as  his!  It  is  not 
worship  of  money  that  urges  him  to  success.  .  .  .  Any 
more  than  with  you."  Her  glance  and  her  smile  were 
for  Alyth  now.  She  looked  and  spoke  more  like  the  girl 
of  New  Rome,  intense  in  appreciation  as  in  denunciation. 

Alyth  smiled  at  her  even  while  he  warned,  "But  there 
is  no  creature  more  utterly  selfish  than  the  creative 
genius." 

"More  so,  you  think,  than  the  financial  genius?"  she 
objected.  "That  is  not  possible." 

As  usual,  she  was  expressing  her  unalterable  opinion 
of  her  father.  Then,  as  if  determined  to  get  away  from 
things  personal  and  painful,  she  turned  to  other  subjects, 
and  showed  herself  wholly  charming.  She  was  a  beauti- 
ful and  intelligent  woman,  her  cleverness  touched  by 
the  spirited  deference  that  captivates  masculine  conceit. 
It  was  no  affectation,  that  attitude  of  hers;  it  was  simply 
a  part  of  her  charm  of  manner.  Disturbed  though  he 
was,  possibly  because  he  was  disturbed,  Alyth  felt  keenly 
her  attraction.  He  took  a  quick  pleasure  in  analyzing 
her.  A  woman  such  as  she  deprived  of  happiness!  The 
pity  of  it! 

When  St.  Claire  came  in  he  found  Alyth  still  before  the 
fire.  "Why — Alyth!  ...  I  am  glad  to  see  you!"  he  said. 
"  I  wasn't  certain  in  this  light.  I  thought,  of  course,  it  was 
Janniss.  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  as  on  your  way  to 
New  York."  He  bent  to  kiss  Myra,  then  sat  down  be- 
side her,  his  hand  still  on  her  shoulder. 

Few  would  have  noticed  anything  but  his  usual  cor- 
diality in  St.  Claire's  manner;  but  to  Myra,  as  to  Alyth, 
his  greeting  rang  hollow.  Myra  stiffened  under  his 
caress,  her  eyes  dilating.  Why  the  remark  about  Jan- 
niss? It  was  with  purpose.  Myra  had  the  sickening 
conviction  that  her  husband  rarely  spoke  or  acted  with- 
out purpose. 

Alyth  had  also  noted  the  intimation.  "No,  I  go  to- 
8  107 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

night,"  he  said,  briefly.  He  gave  no  explanation  of  his 
presence,  for  his  always  active  dislike  of  St.  Claire  was 
intense  at  that  moment.  He  had  seen  the  nervous  widen- 
ing of  Myra's  eyes;  it  was  something  more  acute  than 
indifference,  that  shrinking  of  hers  from  her  husband. 

"You  will  stay  for  dinner?"  St.  Claire  said.  "We  are 
dining  early  this  evening,  are  we  not,  dear — because  of 
the  theater?" 

Alyth  reflected  that  St.  Claire  knew  well  how  to  word 
a  dismissal.  "Thank  you,  but  my  train  leaves  too 
early,"  he  replied. 

Myra  had  not  seconded  the  invitation.  Her  eyes 
rested  for  a  moment  on  her  husband,  the  same  expres- 
sionless observation  she  had  given  him  during  dinner  the 
evening  before.  When  Alyth  rose  she  thanked  him  for 
coming,  the  ring  of  sincerity  in  every  word  she  uttered. 
"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  spare  me  part  of  a  busy 
afternoon.  You  will  not  forget  to  call  upon  mother? 
She  will  be  so  pleased  to  see  you." 

Alyth  promised  and  departed.  As  Nicole  bowed  him 
out  into  the  portico  he  reflected  grimly  that  that  night 
on  the  hillside  he  had  foreseen  some  such  situation.  It 
was  a  great  pity.  There  was  so  much  that  was  lovable 
about  her.  Sincerity  and  sweetness.  There  was  nothing 
petty  in  her  composition;  it  was  like  her  to  champion 
that  black-and-white  woman  who  had  eyes  only  for  her 
husband,  and  too  much  temperament  to  hide  the  fact. 
.  .  .  And  if  Myra  St.  Claire  loved  again  it  would  be  gen- 
erously— she  could  do  no  otherwise.  .  .  .  Think  of  pos- 
sessing a  wife  like  that!  St.  Claire  was  a  clever — fool. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN  the  door  closed  on  Alyth  and  they  were  alone, 
St.  Claire  left  his  wife's  side  and  stood  before  the 
fire,  and  Myra  looked  at  the  fire  and  not  at  him.  The 
increasingly  accurate  reading  of  her  husband,  that  was  a 
hurt  each  time  renewed,  told  her  that  he  had  some  pro- 
posal to  make,  the  real  object  of  which  he  would  endeavor 
to  conceal  from  her.  Life  with  him  had  come  to  mean 
a  series  of  these  purposes  to  which  she  listened  with  low- 
ered eyes  and  apparently  with  only  sufficient  intelligence 
to  unquestioningly  accede,  playing  the  wife's  part  as  Jus- 
tin St.  Claire  conceived  of  it — his  the  dominating  brain, 
hers  the  passively  acquiescent. 

Myra's  understanding  of  her  husband  had  come  ap- 
pallingly soon.  It  was  not  long  after  their  marriage  that 
the  utter  incompatibility  of  their  conceptions  had  broken 
upon  her.  Their  honeymoon,  which  to  St.  Claire  was  a 
period  of  mere  emotional  intensity,  restrained  to  some  ex- 
tent by  consideration  for  her  youth,  had  to  Myra  been 
the  initiation  into  one  of  life's  great  mysteries,  one  of 
the  knowledges  so  fraught  with  awe  as  well  as  with  emo- 
tion that  happiness  had  stood  aside  for  a  time.  Happi- 
ness had  come  later,  when  St.  Claire  first  brought  her  to 
the  old  St.  Claire  home,  while  his  gallantry  still  persisted, 
before  the  nature  of  the  man  revealed  itself.  To  Myra 
this  had  been  a  time  of  dreams,  of  tender  love  for  her 
husband,  of  huge  pride  in  the  family  to  which  she  wanted 
to  bear  a  son,  another  St.  Claire. 

Myra  had  been  so  exquisitely  beautiful  in  her  happi- 

109 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

ness  that  society  had  gone  mad  over  her,  even  its  small 
soul  touched  by  the  dream-widened  eyes  of  a  girl.  In 
the  series  of  ovations  it  offered  St.  Claire  and  his  bride 
it  had  a  shrewd  eye  cocked  to  the  future.  With  a  large 
access  in  fortune  St.  Claire  was  bound  to  stand  foremost ; 
society  had  hastened  to  kiss  his  bride's  hand.  Then 
because  of  that  look  in  her  eyes  it  was  touched,  a  bit 
softened,  genuinely  admiring. 

Myra  had  remained  wrapped  in  her  dreams  until  a 
certain  observation  was  forced  upon  her,  the  entering 
wedge  of  reality.  In  marriages  preordained  to  disunion 
the  first  note  of  discord  is  almost  invariably  struck  on  the 
physical  keyboard,  possibly  because  it  is  the  instrument 
most  played  upon.  So  to  Myra  it  became  plain  that 
what  her  husband  increasingly  demanded  of  her  was  not 
tenderness,  an  opening  of  her  heart  to  him,  but  excite- 
ment; that  he  was  either  excited  or  anxious  most  of  the 
time.  The  rushing,  consuming  life  upon  which  they  were 
launched,  that  made  the  intimacies  of  marriage  snatched 
moments  of  excitation  rather  than  of  joy,  met  with  his 
approval.  At  times  he  shamed  and  puzzled  her.  His 
chivalry  had  faded.  She  shrank  from  his  determined  call 
upon  the  purely  sensuous — upon  that  and  nothing  more. 
With  Myra  the  great  "want"  the  recognition  of  an  in- 
adequacy, that  makes  marital  relations  a  misery,  asserted 
itself  early.  With  his  skill  in  parrying  St.  Claire  had 
pointed  out  to  Myra  the  unwisdom  of  her  entering  upon 
motherhood  too  soon.  But  with  the  desire  to  expend 
tenderness  increasing  in  her,  Myra's  mind  hung  upon  the 
subject.  She  wanted  a  child. 

And  the  fuller  disillusionment  that  left  her  terrified  and 
numb  was  brought  about  by  the  twofold  discovery  that 
her  husband  had  much  the  same  ambitions  and  ideals  as 
her  father,  and  that  he  had  no  desire  for  home-building, 
no  wish  for  children.  It  was  her  father's  frequent  visits, 
and  the  indications  of  an  understanding  between  him  and 

no 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

her  husband,  that,  disquieted  as  Myra  already  was,  had 
driven  her  to  questioning  and  pleading. 

The  occasion  was  the  end  of  the  season,  only  four 
months  after  their  marriage.  Myra  pleaded  for  what 
had  been  her  conception  of  their  life  together — as  she  had 
defined  it  to  St.  Claire  when  she  had  given  him  her 
promise. 

"Let  us  live  more  quietly,  Justin,  so  we  can  have 
a  child,"  she  begged.  "I  know  in  your  heart  you  must 
want  it — a  real  home,  and  not  this  mere  living  for  the 
public.  Life  will  be  ruined  for  us  in  the  end,  if  we  go 
on  as  we  are.  You  are  anxious  and  excited  from  day's 
end  to  day's  end." 

Myra  was  frightened  enough  to  persist  in  her  pleading, 
and  St.  Claire  had  finally  been  forced  to  speak  the  truth, 
to  uncover  plans  he  had  kept  to  himself:  he  did  not  want 
children;  he  wanted  her  as  she  was,  with  beauty  un- 
marred.  He  had  revealed  then  his  ambitions — he  had 
practically  bought  the  Courtney  house  in  Woodmansie 
Place. 

"There  you  will  be  supreme,"  he  said.  "/  mean  that 
we  shall  lead — you  socially,  and  I  financially." 

Myra  had  looked  at  him  aghast.  "But — Justin — you 
mean — to  go  on  living  in  this  way  always — only  more  so 
— a  huge  house  and  no  children!  ...  I  couldn't  do  it." 

He  was  firm.  She  must  adapt  herself;  the  men  in  his 
family  had  never  been  ruled  by  their  women.  "I  think 
you  love  me  enough  to  do  what  will  further  my  interests." 

"You  didn't  tell  me  these  things  before  we  were  mar- 
ried." She  had  grown  dead  white  under  the  blow;  it 
had  come  to  her  overwhelmingly  that  she  had  been  de- 
ceived— played  upon. 

St.  Claire  carried  it  off  with  a  high  hand.  She  loved 
him;  she  was  an  impassioned  woman.  He  had  no  inten- 
tion of  coming  off  second  in  their  first  quarrel. 

"It  was  not  necessary.  You  were  not  old  enough,  or 

in 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

experienced  enough,  to  know  what  you  were  talking  about. 
I  thought  you  loved  me.  If  a  woman  loves  her  husband 
that  is  sufficient  for  her.  He  is  the  head  of  his  house;  he 
is  the  provider.  The  right  of  decision  in  matters  relating 
to  the  big  interests  of  his  family  necessarily  rests  with 
him.  The  woman's  part  is  to  care  for  the  home  her  hus- 
band provides,  and  to  defer  to  his  judgment."  St.  Claire 
had  the  air  of  hectoring  a  child,  for  so  she  appeared  to 
him  in  her  whole-hearted  affection — and  her  ridiculous 
notions.  He  had  not  expected  them  to  persist  after 
marriage  and  in  a  changed  environment. 

"Father's  idea,"  Myra  said,  numbly.  "Not  a  partner- 
ship, no  real  comradeship.  And  how  does  it  work  out? 
From  the  time  I  was  a  little  girl  I  watched  how  it  was  with 
father  and  mother.  .  .  .  Justin,  you  are  all  wrong.  We 
cannot  be  ruled  only  by  ambition  and  be  happy!  Do 
you  want  to  kill  happiness,  Justin?" 

Fear  had  given  edge  to  Myra's  protest,  for  it  was  a 
fundamental  requirement  of  her  being  she  was  guarding. 
St.  Claire  had  roused  a  dread  that  had  grown  up  with  her; 
struck  at  a  conviction  cemented  by  experience.  An  im- 
pression received  in  childhood  can  never  be  eradicated. 
Even  if  not  kept  active  by  added  experience,  it  remains 
a  subconscious  impression  ready  to  spring  into  life.  Her 
love  would  die  under  such  a  future.  And  her  love  was  a 
thing  that  could  not  be  coerced.  . .  .  And  such  a  conception 
of  her!  "You  are  a  baby  with  notions,"  her  father  had 
said.  To  her  husband  she  was  also  "a  baby  with  no- 
tions." He  had  pretended  to  her  as  one  does  with  a 
child.  He  considered  women  as  little  more  than  over- 
grown children;  children  with  the  sex  asset. 

Myra  had  been  pallid  and  voiceless  under  his  attempts 
to  warm  her  into  forgetfulness.  Then,  when  the  deter- 
mination to  conquer  in  his  own  fashion  made  him  im- 
perative, she  was  shocked  anew. 

"Do  you  mean  this  to  be  a  permanent  break  between 

112 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

us?"  he  demanded.  "If  you  turn  me  away  to-night  you 
will  regret  it." 

Myra  had  grasped  his  meaning.  The  future  was  on 
her  with  a  rush,  and  before  it  she  faltered.  She  had 
vested  her  all  —  given  all  of  herself  into  his  keeping, 
and  in  that  moment  of  stress  her  mother's  precepts 
were  written  large  upon  her  consciousness,  dimming  her 
own  immature  scrawl — the  necessity  of  clinging  to  the 
man  who  possessed  her,  of  keeping  intact  the  home  at 
any  price. 

But  happiness  had  lain  cold  and  with  face  covered, 
and  in  the  weeks  and  months  that  followed  it  did  not 
come  to  life.  Myra  had  dragged  through  her  social  duties 
that  spring,  sick  at  heart  and  ill  in  body,  for  she  was  not 
a  stupid  woman,  and  each  day  was  a  little  further  unfold- 
ing of  the  man  she  had  married.  There  gradually  de- 
veloped in  her  an  almost  abnormal  acuteness  in  sensing 
his  motives,  in  reading  his  thoughts.  Her  husband  was 
fundamentally  insincere.  He  was  real  only  when  off  his 
guard,  and  at  such  times  he  impressed  her  as  unlovely. 
When  he  loosed  his  hold  on  restraint  he  shocked  her. 
The  mixture  of  motives  that  had  led  him  to  marry  her 
were  made  increasingly  plain. 

In  time  Myra  braced  herself  for  the  r61e  required  of 
her,  but  mechanically,  for  she  was  thinking,  self-ques- 
tioning, considering.  There  was  in  Myra  the  thing  that 
is  growingly  noticeable  in  the  girl  of  to-day — the  desire 
to  solve  her  problem  assisted  by  her  intelligence  and  not 
by  her  feelings.  She  had  made  the  great  mistake — and 
what  now?  As  she  had  said  to  Alyth,  she  wished  in- 
tensely to  do  what  was  right.  She  read  as  well  as  thought 
during  those  months  of  catering  to  her  husband's  ambi- 
tion, and  of  inwardly  shrinking,  outwardly  passive,  sub- 
mission to  his  demands.  There  was  one  thing  she  could 
not  and  would  not  do — quarrel. 

Karl  Janniss,  with  his  urge  to  create,  his  contempt  for 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

the  sordid,  his  feeling  for  the  beautiful,  and  his  eager 
wish  to  please  her,  had  been  the  one  refreshing  interlude 
in  months  crowded  with  painful  experiences.  With  never 
an  encroachment,  he  had  shown  her  that  he  understood. 
He  had  watched  the  courtship  in  New  Rome;  he  had 
fathomed  her  husband.  Myra  knew  well  that  Janniss 
had  an  artist's  appreciation  of  her  beauty,  but  it  was  not 
that  knowledge  that  attracted  her  to  him.  It  was  the 
boy  in  him,  a  certain  ingenuousness,  a  lovable  quality 
that  appealed  to  the  thing  in  her  that  her  husband  had 
buffeted  and  was  now  starving,  the  thing  that  a  woman 
often  expends  upon  her  husband  quite  as  much  as  upon 
her  child — her  motherhood.  And  yet  Karl  Janniss  was 
all  of  a  man,  with  his  squared  shoulders  and  his  determined 
chin  and  his  vast  capacity  for  work. 

To  society  Myra  appeared  to  have  changed  with  as- 
tonishing rapidity  into  a  coolly  ambitious  woman.  The 
dreamlight  had  left  her  eyes  so  soon.  She  had  grown 
immobile,  and  so  business-like  in  the  manipulation  of 
her  social  advantages  that  she  was  bitterly  criticized, 
and  in  an  equal  degree  deferred  to  and  fawned  upon. 
The  removal  to  Woodmansie  Place  was  laid  at  her  door. 
She  was  her  father's  daughter;  she  must  have  a  palace 
or  two,  of  course.  Secured  by  her  father's  money,  and 
with  her  husband's  social  prestige  to  push  her,  she  evi- 
dently meant  to  sit  on  the  topmost  rung  of  the  social 
ladder.  Justin  St.  Claire  was  ambitious — everybody 
knew  that — but  left  to  himself,  he  would  have  had  better 
taste;  the  St.  Claires  had  always  been  so  conservative. 
Had  Myra  meddled  with  any  of  their  menkind  she  would 
have  been  actively  hated,  but  women  judged  her  too 
politic  for  that.  Still,  the  fact  that  men  in  general  were 
impressed  by  her  beauty  and  her  temperamental  warmth, 
rather  than  by  her  cleverness,  made  her  unloved  by 
women.  Myra  knew  that  she  was  misjudged,  but  what 
did  it  matter?  She  was  too  unhappy  to  care.  Her  thoughts 

114 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

were  either  turned  inward  or  disgustedly  busied  with  her 
husband's  somewhat  complicated  psychology. 

And  as  Myra  sat  now  looking  into  the  fire,  with  her 
husband  standing  over  her,  she  guessed  wearily  that  be- 
fore making  his  proposal,  whatever  it  might  be,  he  would 
endeavor  to  smooth  over  his  dismissal  of  Alyth.  For 
some  reason  he  hated  Alyth.  There  was  no  theater  en- 
gagement; that  had  been  one  of  St.  Claire's  swift  im- 
provisations. Myra  had  judged  so  correctly  that  when 
the  confirmation  came  it  made  her  wince. 

"They  were  saying  at  the  Mid-Day  Club  that  'A 
Modern  Pericles'  is  worth  seeing.  I  thought  you  would 
like  to  go." 

Myra  knew  shrinkingly  that  this  was  also  an  impro- 
visation. "Will  you  go?"  she  asked,  quietly. 

"No,  I  have  a  meeting.  You  and  Adele  could  go. 
Janniss  can  take  you." 

"I  think  I  prefer  an  evening  at  home." 

St.  Claire  dropped  the  subject,  as  she  knew  he  would. 
He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  led  up  to  his  proposal. 
"Did  Adele  have  her  last  sitting  to-day?" 

"I  believe  so." 

So  it  was  something  further  about  the  woman  she 
had  taken  into  his  house  and  had  chaperoned  through- 
out the  season. 

"Janniss  will  be  off  to  New  York,  then,  of  course.  I 
have  to  go  too — I'll  have  business  that  will  keep  me  there 
for  a  week  or  ten  days,  and  then  I  must  go  on  to  Wash- 
ington. How  would  you  and  Adele  like  to  go  with  me 
for  that  week?" 

Myra  did  not  answer  at  once.  There  were  disagree- 
able things  said  about  this  sister-in-law  of  St.  Claire's. 
She  was  wealthy,  and  until  she  came  of  age  St.  Claire 
had  been  her  guardian.  She  had  been  eccentric,  even  as 
a  young  girl  a  lover  of  men,  and  always  with  some  ad- 
venturer in  her  train.  Women  she  openly  abominated. 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

It  was  supposed  that  the  family  tendency  to  insanity 
had  kept  her  from  marrying;  at  any  rate,  she  had  not 
married,  though  her  love-affairs  had  been  numerous. 
After  coming  into  her  property  she  had  for  several  years 
shocked  society  by  her  mad  flirtations  until  she  had 
been  all  but  ostracized.  Then  she  had  gone  to  Paris  to 
live,  and  occasionally  outrageous  stories,  with,  of  course, 
only  a  modicum  of  truth  as  a  foundation,  had  reached 
her  home  city.  In  an  impatient,  half-disgusted  way  Mrs. 
Du  Pont-Maurice  had  always  stood  her  friend. 

"Bah!"  she  was  in  the  habit  of  exclaiming.  "The 
only  difference  between  Adele  and  some  of  her  detractors 
is  that  she  is  insane  enough  to  say  and  do  openly  what 
they  think  and  do  a  huis  clos.  . .  .  Leave  the  child  alone. 
She  has  a  big  enough  enemy  to  fight  in  herself." 

To  the  surprise  of  every  one,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
season  Adele  Courland  had  suddenly  returned  to  St. 
Louis,  and  upon  her  announcement  that  she  intended 
to  remain  indefinitely  the  St.  Claires  had  made  it  ap- 
parent that  they  meant  to  see  her  through.  For  part 
of  the  winter  she  had  been  their  guest.  It  was,  of  course, 
remembered  then  that  she  had  always  been  infatuated 
with  Justin  St.  Claire,  and  tongues  wagged.  If  the  gossip 
reached  Myra  she  showed  no  sign.  Even  when  Adele, 
as  at  dinner  the  night  before,  recklessly  showed  her  pref- 
erence, Myra  did  not  vary  from  her  imperviously  polite 
attitude.  In  the  weeks  of  Adele's  visit  there  had  never 
once  been  an  intimacy  between  Myra  and  her  visitor, 
or,  on  the  other  hand,  a  single  word  of  disagreement. 
Myra  had  been  born  with  the  art  of  tactful  inaccessi- 
bility. In  an  expressionless  way  she  was  studying  still 
another  phase  of  her  husband's  character. 

St.  Claire  had  expressed  utter  disgust  at  his  sister-in- 
law's  sudden  appearance,  and  to  Myra's  sharpened 
understanding  an  excitement  that  he  hid  well. 

"Of  all  the  nuisances!"  he  exclaimed.    "She  will  get 

116 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

cold-shouldered  everywhere.  What  in  the  world  is  she 
thinking  of!  ft's  one  of  her  mad  freaks,  of  course. 
She  has  been  an  endless  bother  to  me.  .  .  .  Still,  since  she 
is  here  and  bound  to  stay,  we  shall  have  to  do  what  we 
can  for  her.  She  is  a  relation ;  in  a  way  I  feel  that  I  am 
her  guardian  yet.  We  will  have  to  see  her  through. 
We  shall  have  to  ask  her  here,"  and  Myra  had  acqui- 
esced, as  she  did  to  every  request  he  made. 

But  Myra  had  considered  Adele  Courland  from  all 
sides,  and  for  some  time  she  had  realized  that  there  was 
only  one  course  possible.  She  answered  finally,  "The 
better  thing  would  be  to  persuade  Adele  to  go  back  to 
Paris." 

St.  Claire  glanced  at  her,  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause, 
during  which  his  face  lost  expression.  "Why?" 

Myra  did  not  look  up.  She  kept  on  steadily,  though 
her  hands  grew  cold  from  distaste  of  the  subject.  "Your 
experiment  is  not  working  out — Adele  cares  nothing  for 
Janniss.  And  for  several  reasons — for  her  own  sake — she 
will  be  better  off  in  Paris." 

"Why — better  off  in  Paris?"  he  persisted.  It  was 
surprising  that  she  had  perceived  so  clearly  a  motive  of 
his;  but  that  was  not  all  her  quiet  remarks  conveyed. 

"Adele  is  infatuated  with  you,  Justin.  She  has  been 
so  for  years.  You  have  known  it,  and  others  have  known 
and  commented  on  it.  This  is  not  the  place  for  her; 
you  should  never  have  let  her  come  here." 

St.  Claire  flushed  crimson.  He  could  not  accustom 
himself  to  her  clean  directness.  It  was  being  gradually 
borne  in  upon  him  that  he  had  married  a  woman  who 
possessed  a  little  of  her  father's  cleverness.  He  had  al- 
ways considered  cool-headedness  as  the  rarest  of  femi- 
nine qualities.  He  was  much  too  observant  not  to  have 
noticed  certain  changes  in  his  wife:  that  she  had  lost  all 
her  girlish  enthusiasm;  that  she  was  no  longer  impas- 
sioned; that  she  was  merely  passive,  and  that  when  she 

117 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

could  she  guarded  herself  from  his  demands.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  absorbed  by  the  management  of  his  house 
and  society.  She  no  longer  objected  to  their  living  so 
much  for  the  public  that  they  saw  less  and  less  of  each 
other. 

They  were  all  changes  that  had  appeared  explainable. 
In  the  beginning  she  had  taken  the  shattering  of  her  girl- 
ish ideals  somewhat  tragically;  she  had  been  actually  ill 
after  their  first  and  only  quarrel — until  her  good  sense 
had  come  to  the  rescue — as  he  had  felt  sure  it  would. 
Then  she  had  matured  rapidly  and  taken  on  the  unemo- 
tional attitude  toward  him  that  most  married  women  of 
his  acquaintance  maintained  toward  their  husbands. 

St.  Claire  was  utterly  skeptical  of  lover-like  relations 
between  husband  and  wife.  Too  many  married  women 
had  favored  him  with  affection  and  confidences  for  him 
to  have  retained  illusions  on  that  score.  The  emotional 
attitude  was  one  that  passed,  and  quickly.  The  posses- 
sive remained,  and  frequently  worked  the  mischief;  but 
it  was  convenance,  economic  considerations,  or  habit  that 
kept  the  average  family  together.  Myra  was  naturally 
a  woman  of  strong  feeling;  he  had  not  expected  the  change 
to  be  so  immediate  with  her;  still,  except  in  his  headlong 
moods,  he  did  not  regret  the  change.  He  had  intended 
that  she  should  become  socially  ambitious,  and  he  knew 
well  enough  that  the  socially  immersed  woman  has  little 
time  or  inclination  for  love.  He  had  wanted  a  wife  and 
an  establishment,  and  certainly  Myra  was  filling  those 
requirements  admirably.  He  could  adapt  himself;  he 
had  a  man's  liberty,  and  Myra  did  not  appear  jealously 
inclined;  St.  Claire  had  been  deeply  thankful  for  that. 
So  far  she  had  not  shown  a  particle  of  jealousy,  retro- 
spective or  otherwise. 

But  her  present  remarks  were  a  bit  staggering,  since  to 
his  conception  they  could  be  prompted  only  by  jealousy. 
St.  Claire's  answer  was  instantaneous  with  his  flush. 

118 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"You  don't  mean  you  doubt  me,  Myra?" 

"No,  I  do  not  doubt  you — not  as  you  mean,"  she 
said,  evenly.  "  I  think  you  dislike  Adele.  Certainly  you 
have  always  made  her  fondness  for  you  and  your  indiffer- 
ence clear  to  everybody.  Yet  you  asked  her  here  as  a 
visitor,  and  have  been  charming  to  her.  Then  recently 
you  asked  Janniss  here,  and  persuaded  Adele  to  have  her 
portrait  painted,  with  the  evident  intention  that  she  should 
become  infatuated  with  him.  With  her  unfortunate  in- 
heritance you  certainly  could  not  expect  a  man  of  Jan- 
niss's  intelligence  to  marry  her.  ...  I  do  not  pretend  to 
understand  you,  Justin — I  only  know  that  for  some  pur- 
pose Adele  is  being  manipulated,  and  it  is  not  right." 

Though  her  answer  relieved  him  somewhat,  it  was  still 
another  surprise.  St.  Claire  did  not  like  the  word  "ma- 
nipulated." "You  are  quite  right — I  do  not  like  Adele, 
and  I  have  never  liked  her,"  he  said,  with  emphasis; 
"  but  you  are  quite  wrong  in  thinking  that  I  have  had  any 
ulterior  motives.  Heaven  knows  I  have  been  bothered 
enough  by  her  silly  attachment  to  me !  Adele  never  con- 
siders the  public  when  she  is  giving  herself  up  to  an  in- 
fatuation, and  if  her  folly  has  been  noticed  it  is  her  own 
fault,  not  mine.  ...  I  suggested  her  coming  here  because 
I  knew  your  countenancing  her  would  be  the  best  refuta- 
tion of  gossip.  I  don't  like  Adele,  but  I  am  sorry  for  her. 
It  did  occur  to  me  that  if  she  and  Janniss  could  care  for 
each  other  it  might  be  a  solution  for  her.  Janniss  has 
nothing,  and  she  has.  There  have  been  much  more  im- 
possible matches  made  than  theirs  would  be.  But  I  have 
no  thought  of  'manipulating'  Adele,  Myra.  I  am  sorry 
you  should  so  utterly  misjudge  me."  He  spoke  as  one 
deeply  hurt. 

Myra  did  not  say  that  she  did  not  believe  him;  that 
the  more  smoothly  and  convincingly  he  expressed  him- 
self the  less  inclined  she  was  to  believe  him.  She  had  said 
enough.  To  say  what  she  had  had  left  her  trembling. 

119 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

She  had  felt  compelled  to  say  it;   things  could  not  go  on 
as  they  were  with  Adele. 

"I  do  not  like  the  whole  situation,"  was  all  she  allowed 
herself  to  say. 

"I  have  not  thought  much  about  it,"  St.  Claire  de- 
clared. "It  has  always  seemed  such  nonsense,  Adele's 
caring  for  me,  and  of  course  I  haven't  realized  how  you 
felt  about  it.  You  must  know  that  with  Adele's  tempera- 
ment an  infatuation  means  nothing — nothing  at  all. 
In  time  she  will  be  just  as  taken  with  some  one  else. 
Women  are  always  being  silly  over  me.  It  doesn't  mean 
anything  to  me." 

Myra  realized  that  he  spoke  without  any  petty  conceit. 
His  belief  in  his  power  to  fascinate  was  too  immense,  his 
conceit  too  monumental,  to  be  petty.  Certainly  women 
had  done  their  best  to  foster  that  belief  in  him.  But  she 
did  not  agree  with  him  regarding  Adele.  Her  infatuation 
appeared  to  Myra  little  short  of  madness,  an  unreason- 
ing thing  that  rebounded  from  St.  Claire's  smooth  sur- 
face without  leaving  the  slightest  impression.  She  re- 
membered the  spell  he  had  laid  upon  herself,  and  she  had 
often  grown  hot  and  cold  over  her  observation  of  Adele. 
But  the  thing  that  burned  her  most  was  the  suspicion 
that  her  husband  was  utilizing  Adele's  feeling  for  some 
purpose.  When  that  explanation  had  occurred  to  her 
Myra  realized  that  she  had  indeed,  as  Alyth  had  said, 
"traveled  far  in  a  short  time";  her  own  state  of  mind 
toward  her  husband  sickened  her. 

St.  Claire  watched  her  expressionless  observation  of 
the  fire  with  well-concealed  anxiety.  He  had  a 'whole- 
some fear  of  woman's  jealousy,  and  it  occurred  to  him 
now  that  with  Myra  jealousy  would  take  just  this  quietly 
expressed  form.  It  may  have  had  much  to  do  with  her 
changed  attitude  to  him. 

"What  do  you  think  would  be  the  best  way  of  reliev- 
ing the  situation?"  he  asked. 

120 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"The  only  right  thing  is  to  be  honest  with  Adele. 
Convince  her  that  she  is  foolish  and  persuade  her  to  go 
back  to  Paris." 

"Adele  is  not  easy  to  persuade,"  he  objected.  "I 
want,  above  all  things,  to  avoid  a  scene  with  her.  I  have 
counted  on  this  nonsense  of  hers  wearing  off.  .  .  .  Wouldn't 
it  be  best  to  avoid  an  explanation — let  things  come  gradu- 
ally? .  .  .  We  will  go  to  New  York,  you  and  I,  and  then 
Adele  will  have  to  fall  back  upon  the  Edwin  Courlands, 
and  when  we  return  we  need  not  invite  her  here.  She 
cannot  endure  life  with  those  two  old  people  long,  and 
particularly  through  the  dull  summer.  She  will  go  back 
to  Paris  of  her  own  choice  then." 

Myra  felt  she  must  accede  to  the  plan.  She  was  drearily 
conscious  that  her  husband  could  handle  the  situation 
without  embarrassment  to  himself.  "I  could  visit  with 
mother  while  you  go  to  Washington,"  she  said.  It  took 
all  her  will  to  keep  from  weeping,  for  the  thought  of  see- 
ing her  mother  made  her  throat  hurt.  During  those 
wretched  months  she  had  longed  for  her  mother,  an 
ache  that  would  not  be  stilled.  The  previous  summer, 
when  the  realities  had  assumed  ominous  importance  and 
she  was  too  miserable  to  arouse  herself.  Myra  had  gone 
to  her  mother,  clung  close  to  her,  and  revealed  nothing. 
And  now  to  get  away  from  that  huge  house  that  sat 
upon  her  like  an  incubus;  to  rid  herself  of  Adele's  re- 
pellent personality;  to  be  relieved  of  her  husband's 
presence ! 

Myra  set  her  teeth  and  gripped  her  hands  in  her  effort 
for  self-control,  for  St.  Claire  had  sat  down  beside  her 
and  put  his  arm  about  her.  She  grew  so  white  that  her 
features  appeared  pinched,  depriving  her  face  of  beauty. 
That  cold  appraisement  of  a  woman  that  was  part  of 
St.  Claire's  nature  told  him  that  in  the  last  months  she 
had  gone  off  in  her  looks.  She  looked  really  ill ;  jealousy 
did  not  agree  with  her.  She  was  sick  with  jealousy,  and 

121 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

too  proud  to  show  what  was  tearing  at  her.  St.  Claire 
had  drawn  the  conclusions  natural  to  him;  they  had 
settled  somewhat  early  into  the  married  state  that  called 
for  little  private  petting  and  the  necessary  public  show 
of  affection  on  his  part.  She  had.  of  course,  laid  his 
omissions  at  Adele's  door. 

But  he  did  not  let  his  thoughts  affect  his  manner. 
"You  are  not  letting  little  things  like  a  foolishness  of 
Adele's  worry  you,  are  you,  sweetheart?"  he  asked,  af- 
fectionately. "We  have  fallen  into  a  rut.  We'll  be  off 
for  a  second  honeymoon." 

Myra  recognized  the  suggestion — the  usual  panacea 
for  all  marital  complaints.  ...  It  was  not  for  that  she  was 
starving.  Was  it  the  women  he  had  known  who  had 
given  him  his  unalterable  estimate  of  women?  She  was 
experienced  enough  now  to  know  that  her  husband  had 
been  a  man  of  many  loves;  not  a  man  restrained  under 
misfortune,  with  the  desire  for  wife  and  home  always 
alive  in  him;  the  being  she  had  believed  him  to  be — a 
belief  he  had  fostered. 

"No,"  she  said,  a  little  indistinctly,  "it  is  just  an 
accumulation  of  things.  ...  I  am  tired  out."  She  had 
stiffened.  She  kept  the  palms  of  her  hands  pressed  to- 
gether in  her  lap  that  he  might  not,  by  touching  them, 
discover  how  cold  and  moist  they  were.  Her  withdrawal 
was  done  cautiously.  "I  can  scarcely  sit  up,  I  am  so 
tired,"  she  confessed.  "I  shall  lie  down  before  dinner." 
She  submitted  to  his  kiss,  then  slipped  out  of  his 
hold. 

When  she  was  gone  St.  Claire  rose  and  walked  the  floor, 
as  was  usual  with  him  when  he  was  thinking.  .  .  .  This 
was  a  threat  of  danger  from  an  unexpected  quarter.  .  .  . 
Good  heavens!  He  had  not  wanted  Adele  in  his  house! 
He  had  been  unable  to  help  himself.  He  had  watched 
closely,  and  any  one  more  apparently  indifferent  to 
Adele's  occasional  lapses  than  Myra  he  could  not  imagine. 

122 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  had  not  credited  her  with  such  power  of  concealment. 
She  had  always  impressed  him  as  so  direct  as  to  be  simple. 

But  there  was  no  doubt  now  that  she  was  jealous,  and 
jealousy  was  the  very  devil!  It  might  send  her  to  her 
father  with  complaints,  and  that  was  a  contingency  to 
be  avoided,  though  Milenberg  would  give  her  little  sym- 
pathy; he  was  too  well  pleased  with  things  as  they  were. 
.  .  .  Adele  must  go — no  easy  matter  to  handle — and  it 
would  behoove  him  to  give  a  little  more  attention  to  his 
wife.  Jealous  dissatisfaction  always  inclined  a  woman's 
ear  to  another  man,  and  there  was  Janniss  who  was  about 
as  completely  in  love  with  her  as  a  man  could  well  be. 
Myra  had  just  shown  that  she  could  be  "deep";  there 
might  be  more  between  them  than  he  knew. 

St.  Claire  came  to  a  stop  before  the  fire  when  he  reached 
this  point  in  his  meditations,  his  look  grown  brilliant  and 
unmoved,  his  least  agreeable  expression.  .  .  .  The  young 
man  needed  a  hint  to  keep  his  distance  while  Myra  was 
in  New  York,  and  he  would  get  it !  ...  Nothing  he  could 
say  to  Alyth  would  have  any  effect;  the  man  detested  him. 
Still,  he  was  not  the  kind  to  dangle  after  another  man's 
wife. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MRS.  MILENBERG  was  shocked  by  the  change  in 
her  daughter.  Myra  had  not  been  well  when  she 
came  to  her  in  New  Rome  the  previous  summer,  but  now 
she  looked  something  more  than  simply  ill;  not  so  much 
ill  as  older,  colorless,  lifeless.  Yet  she  seemed  able  to 
do  innumerable  things,  and  when  dressed  for  dinner  or  the 
theater,  when  aroused,  she  was  as  beautiful  as  ever.  But 
animation  dropped  from  her  so  quickly,  like  her  opera- 
cloak,  a  thing  put  on  and  taken  off. 

The  week  St.  Claire  had  spent  with  them  had  been 
crowded  with  engagements.  St.  Claire  had  long  ago  dis- 
covered that  his  wife  charmed  the  successful  man  of 
affairs.  His  eastern  journey  was  for  the  purpose  of  lead- 
ing certain  men  up  to  Milenberg's  manipulation.  Several 
of  these  men  St.  Claire  had  entertained  at  Woodmansie 
Place,  and  there  he  had  observed  the  impression  his  wife's 
beauty  had  made  on  them.  They  were  well-scarred  finan- 
cial veterans  who  felt  they  had  earned  the  right  to  dal- 
liance. Myra's  combination  of  warmth  and  reserve,  of 
cleverness  and  deference,  delighted  them.  In  the  lunch- 
eons, dinners,  and  theater-parties  St.  Claire  had  arranged 
for  that  week  Myra  had  had  her  place  and  definite  use. 

St.  Claire  was  glad  she  lent  herself  to  his  manceuvers 
without  question.  For  that  matter,  she  had  never  ques- 
tioned, and  it  was  only  since  he  had  begun  to  be  impressed 
by  her  intelligence  that  he  began  to  wonder  if  she  knew 
what  he  and  her  father  were  about.  In  Milenberg's 
schemes  there  was  always  a  deal  of  wire-pulling,  and  this 

124 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

was  a  particularly  intricate  combination  of  manufacturing 
interests  that  required  accomplished  lobbying  and  a  care- 
fully worked-out  system  of  bribery.  Milenberg  wanted 
results  before  the  next  administration.  If  she  did  sus- 
pect she  appeared  quite  indifferent,  which  was  surprising 
in  face  of  the  detestation  she  had  once  expressed  of  her 
father's  methods;  before  their  marriage  she  had  been 
very  frank  with  him  concerning  Milenberg's  record. 

And  she  had  never  again  mentioned  Adele.  St.  Claire 
had  used  his  utmost  skill  in  engineering  his  sister-in-law 
out  of  his  house  and  into  the  dull  home  of  her  relatives, 
and,  though  furious,  Adele  had  been  forced  to  go.  She 
had  laid  her  dismissal  at  Myra's  door,  an  impression  St. 
Claire  fostered;  it  would  not  do  to  have  her  wild  anger 
directed  against  himself.  If  Myra  guessed  Adele's  feel- 
ings she  showed  no  sign.  She  had  retained  to  the  end  her 
imperviously  polite  exterior.  St.  Claire  was  discovering 
that  his  wife's  exterior  covered  much  he  had  not  suspected, 
and,  taking  counsel  of  his  caution,  he  was  very  attentive 
to  her.  He  was  deeply  excited  over  the  financial  game  he 
was  playing,  so  a  little  impetuous  devotion  was  not  dif- 
ficult. 

Myra  had  met  his  love-making  quietly,  as  inexpressive 
over  it  as  she  was  about  other  things.  Her  unmoved  at- 
titude puzzled  St.  Claire;  his  conceit  could  assign  no 
reason  for  it,  except  that  she  still  distrusted  him.  But, 
Adele  well  out  of  the  way,  her  jealousy  would  wear  off. 
And  he  had  no  fear  of  Janniss.  A  skilfully  directed  thrust 
had  brought  the  blood  to  the  young  man's  cheek;  he  was 
the  sort  who  would  hotly  resent  being  classed  as  a  poacher. 
On  the  whole,  St.  Claire  left  for  Washington  well  pleased, 
for  the  thing  he  had  in  hand  was  going  well,  and  Milen- 
berg was  more  than  satisfied.  Myra's  moods  were  of 
small  consequence  compared  with  her  father's. 

No  one  but  Myra  knew  what  that  ten  days  had  meant 
to  her.  It  left  its  imprint  on  her  face,  arousing  Mrs, 

125 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Milenberg's  anxiety.  This  mutual  playing  of  a  part, 
simulating  compliance  in  return  for  the  pretense  of  love, 
sickened  Myra;  allowing  herself  to  be  used  for  the  further- 
ing of  schemes  of  which  she  did  not  approve  was  doing 
violence  to  her  nature,  the  fundamental  requirement  of 
which  was  honesty.  The  double  strain  upon  nerves  that 
were  already  taut  had  brought  Myra's  endurance  to  the 
breaking-point.  When  her  husband  was  gone  she  was 
too  exhausted  to  stir  from  the  divan  in  her  mother's  sit- 
ting-room. Lying  there,  she  could  look  out  upon  Central 
Park  or  down  at  the  ever-changing  panorama  of  the  Plaza ; 
she  looked,  but,  it  appeared  to  her  mother,  without  seeing 
or  caring. 

As  long  as  her  son-in-law  was  present  timidity  had  kept 
Mrs.  Milenberg  from  questioning,  but  now  that  they  were 
alone  she  could  restrain  herself  no  longer.  "You  look  so 
badly,  Myra — do  have  a  doctor,"  she  begged. 

"I  am  not  ill,"  Myra  assured  her,  patiently.  "I  am 
simply  tired  out,  mother  dear." 

"Is  it  always  like  this  last  week,  when  you  are  at 
home?"  Mrs.  Milenberg  asked,  anxiously. 

"Very  much  like  it,  during  the  season." 

"If  I  had  been  with  you  I  should  have  made  you  rest. 
But  your  father  hasn't  wanted  me  to  go.  And  I  thought 
maybe  I'd  be  in  the  way,  too,  for  I'm  not  a  society  woman, 
and  I  wouldn't  know  how  to  be  with  your  grand  friends. 
So  I  stayed  close  by  Irma  and  Ina,  like  your  father  wanted 
me  to;  but  if  I  had  known  you  were  looking  and  feeling 
like  this  I  should  have  come.  Your  father  always  said 
you  were  doing  finely,  and  such  a  success.  Much  men 
ever  notice!"  She  ended  in  a  helpless  indignation  that 
flushed  her. 

"I  am  a  success,  as  most  people  look  at  things,"  Myra 
said,  composedly. 

"It  isn't  worth  it,  wearing  yourself  out  like  this." 

Myra  was  silent. 

126 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"I  wanted  to  ask  Justin  to  let  you  see  a  doctor,"  Mrs. 
Milenberg  continued,  "but  I  didn't  like  to.  Let  me  get 
one  now." 

Myra  sat  up,  hoping  by  that  sign  of  animation  to  re- 
assure her  mother.  "I  don't  need  a  doctor,  mother," 
she  said,  more  positively.  "I  have  been  consulting  a  doc- 
tor at  intervals  all  winter.  I  am  simply  nervously  de- 
pleted; all  I  need  is  rest."  And  in  her  own  mind  Myra 
added,  "Happiness." 

Mrs.  Milenberg  persisted.  "Have  you  thought,  Myra, 
that  it  might  be—?" 

As  always,  Myra  read  her  mother's  meaning  instantly. 
She  flushed  crimson.  "It  is  nothing  of  that  kind,"  she 
answered,  with  a  touch  of  sharpness. 

"But — I  thought  you  wanted  it?"  Mrs.  Milenberg 
exclaimed  in  surprise.  "I  was  hoping  it  was." 

"No,"  Myra  said,  bitterly.  "Children  have  no  part 
in  the  usual  scheme  of  life.  It  should  be  mutual  love 
and  intention  that  brings  children  into  the  world!"  She 
was  vivid  for  the  moment,  and  trembling. 

Her  mother  was  aghast.  "Myra!  .  .  .  But  Justin  is 
devoted  to  you!  I  have  noticed  him  this  last  week.  .  .  . 
Myra,  don't  tell  me  there  is  trouble  between  you  two!" 
Mrs.  Milenberg  had  grown  quite  white. 

Myra  controlled  herself  instantly.  "Trouble? — no, 
mother  dear.  Justin  and  I  never  quarrel!" 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  still  white  about 
the  lips.  "It  was  the  way  you  spoke,  Myra — that  was 
all.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  the  way  you  have  looked  some- 
times." 

"Don't  worry,  mother,"  Myra  said,  gently.  "Justin 
and  I  have  no  time  for  children.  I  was  disappointed  at 
first,  but  perhaps  it  is  as  well  so.  ...  Have  a  doctor, 
dear,  if  it  will  relieve  your  mind.  All  I  ask  is  to  be 
quietly  here  with  you — for  a  time.  Just  a  breathing- 
spell.  I  shall  feel  stronger  in  a  day  or  two."  And  she 

127 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

turned  to  the  pillows  with  an  air  of  exhaustion  she  was 
unable  to  conceal. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  promptly  sent  for  a  physician,  who, 
as  Myra  had  predicted,  talked  of  general  debility,  pre- 
scribed iron  and  strengthening  diet  and  a  trip  South  if 
possible,  leaving  Mrs.  Milenberg,  at  least,  much  comforted. 

"If  only  I  could  leave  the  girls  we  would  go,"  she  said, 
in  mild  excitement.  "I  would  like  a  change  myself." 

"Poor  mother!  It  must  have  been  pretty  deadly  for 
you  here  this  winter."  Myra  looked  at  the  expensive 
hotel  apartment  Milenberg  had  provided  for  his  wife, 
with  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  lonely  hours  her  mother 
had  spent  in  it.  Her  sisters  were  at  a  finishing-school, 
and  only  week-end  visitors  with  their  mother. 

"I  have  managed,"  Mrs.  Milenberg  said,  in  her  patient 
way.  "I  was  thankful  I  could  be  near  my  girls.  .  .  .  And 
I  haven't  been  altogether  without  friends.  There  are  a 
few  New  Rome  people  here  in  New  York,  and  they  have 
been  to  see  me."  And  Mrs.  Milenberg  named  several, 
among  them  Caroline  Alyth. 

The  mention  of  Alyth's  wife  interested  Myra.  "What 
is  Mrs.  Alyth  like?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  hesitated.  "I  don't  know  that  you 
would  like  her,  Myra,  but  I  think  she  is  a  good  woman. 
She  may  be  a  little  anxious  to  get  rich,  but  so  many 
people  are  like  that.  I  know  she  has  the  right  idea — 
that  a  family  must  be  kept  together — that  that  is  a  wom- 
an's first  duty.  ...  I  am  afraid  she  and  her  husband 
don't  always  get  on  together." 

It  was  plain  to  Myra  that  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Alyth 
had  reached  a  degree  of  intimacy.  Myra  sighed  inaudibly. 
A  woman's  first  duty!  "And  Mr.  Alyth,  have  you  seen 
him?"  she  asked.  There  was  soothing  in  simply  listening 
to  her  mother's  voice,  a  distraction  from  the  thing  that 
Myra  was  turning  over  and  over  in  her  mind. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  looked  a  little  shamefacedly  at  her 

128 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

daughter.  "Yes,  he  came  one  afternoon.  He  took  me 
to  the  theater,  Myra,  and  in  the  evening." 

"  Did  he?"  Myra  was  pleased,  and  not  a  little  amused 
at  her  mother's  air  of  embarrassment. 

"He  came  late  one  afternoon,  and  after  we  had  talked 
he  asked  me,  all  of  a  sudden,  to  have  dinner  with  him;  he 
said  we'd  have  it  down-stairs.  So  we  went,  and  I  enjoyed 
it.  Then  he  said  he  had  tickets  for  the  theater,  and 
would  I  go  ?  I  didn't  want  to  do  it — a  married  man,  and 
taking  me  out  in  that  way — but  he'd  surprised  me  so  I 
didn't  have  any  sensible  excuse  to  give.  Well,  he  just 
set  everything  I  said  aside  like  that" — Mrs.  Milenberg 
made  a  little  gesture — "and  the  first  thing  I  knew  he 
had  me  back  up  here,  and  putting  my  wrap  on,  and  a  taxi 
ordered,  and  he  made  me  go." 

"It  was  dear  of  him,"  Myra  said.  How  well  the  man 
understood!  That  vivid  glance  of  his  had  seen  in  a 
moment  the  loneliness  that  sat  enthroned  amid  all 
that  white  enamel  and  mahogany,  patiently  doing  what 
it  considered  its  duty.  "What  did  you  see?"  she  asked. 

"'The  Lady  from  Cape  Cod.'  It's  a  pretty  play, 
Myra — all  but  the  dancing.  They  danced  in  their  bath- 
ing-suits, the  men  and  women — 'trotted,'  Mr.  Alyth 
called  it.  I  didn't  like  that  part  of  the  play.  I  didn't 
know  which  way  to  look.  .  .  .  Mr.  Alyth  seems  to  have 
seen  and  to  know  about  everything.  He  is  a  nice  man, 
though  I  should  hate  to  cross  him  or  have  him  make  fun 
of  me.  He  was  very  nice  to  me.  When  he  said  good- 
by  he  said  I  might  consider  that  I  had  been  having  a 
jaunt  with  my  son,  and  if  I  would  permit  him  he'd  come 
and  persuade  me  to  go  with  him  again  some  time." 

"How  is  Eustace?"  Myra  asked. 

The  furrows  returned  to  Mrs.  Milenberg's  brow.  "He 
is  in  Chicago,  you  know.  Your  father  wouldn't  give  him 
money  to  go  abroad  this  winter." 

Myra  questioned  no  further.  She  wondered  how  much 
129 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

her  mother  knew  of  Eustace's  doings  that  winter.  A 
supper  he  had  given  to  some  chorus-girls  had  been  com- 
mented on  in  the  papers,  and  had  made  Milenberg  sav- 
agely angry.  St.  Claire  had  also  been  disgusted  when 
it  had  been  squibbed  in  their  society  sheet.  Eustace 
was  going  the  pace,  a  little  more  rapidly  each  year, 
headed  straight  for  the  breakers.  And  if  her  mother 
knew  how  things  were  with  her,  Myra!  .  .  .  She  turned 
restlessly  from  her  thoughts  to  ask  about  her  sisters. 

"Irma  is  very  clever,  and  growing  into  a  beauty," 
Mrs.  Milenberg  said.  "  She  is  all  ambition,  like  her  father. 
Ina  is  not  so  bright,  nor  so  pretty;  she  seems  to  develop 
so  much  more  slowly  than  Irma.  Your  father  has  planned 
for  them  to  come  out  in  Chicago  next  winter,  and  then 
come  to  you.  Perhaps  he  told  you?  You  could  do  so 
much  for  them;  there  really  is  very  little  chance  for  them 
to  marry  as  they  should  in  Chicago." 

"They  are  young  to  marry — younger  than  I  was," 
Myra  said,  too  gently  for  disagreement,  for  her  own 
heartache  made  her  tender  with  her  mother.  She  looked 
sadly  at  Mrs.  Milenberg's  furrowed  brow,  while  rebellion 
choked  her.  Did  they  expect  her  to  lead  her  sisters  along 
the  path  she  had  traveled,  marry  them  off  to  position, 
with  her  heart  telling  her  at  every  step  that  it  was  not  the 
path  to  happiness? 

By  the  end  of  the  week  Myra  was  able  to  be  about,  the 
whipping  herself  up  to  activity  that  had  become  habitual. 
Her  father,  who  had  kept  away  from  New  York  while 
St.  Claire  was  there  manceuvering  in  his  interests,  reap- 
peared, and  at  his  wife's  anxious  account  of  Myra's 
health  took  his  daughter  to  Tiffany's  and  insisted  upon 
presenting  her  with  a  diamond  necklace  and  a  sum  of 
money  that  he  ordered  her  to  spend  on  "French  tog- 
gery." 

"Get  some  color  in  your  cheeks,  and  not  from  the 
rouge-pot.  You're  losing  your  good  looks.  Good  looks 

130 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

are  always  in  the  market,  remember,"  he  warned,  "and 
the  best  of  husbands  might  be  tempted  to  go  a-buying." 

Myra  knew  it  was  her  father's  way  of  showing  his 
affection  and  his  alarmed  self-interest.  She  had  filled 
so  perfectly  the  role  designed  for  her.  He  was  immensely 
proud  of  her  and  all  her  surroundings.  What  did  she  mean 
by  flagging?  Money  bought  all  things;  according  to 
Milenberg's  way  of  thinking  it  cured  practically  all  ills. 

Myra  thanked  her  father,  and  put  the  necklace  and  the 
money  in  bank.  She  already  had  more  jewels  than  she 
ever  thought  of  wearing.  Her  interest  in  such  things  was 
nil,  for  the  question  Myra  was  turning  over  and  over  in 
her  mind  was  the  ever-portentous  one  grown  more  poig- 
nant: was  the  submission  to  a  man  whom  she  neither 
loved  nor  respected,  the  conservation  of  their  home,  such 
as  it  was,  a  self-abnegation  necessary  for  the  furthering 
of  an  ethical  principle? 

In  spite  of  her  efforts  to  the  contrary,  they  two  had 
come  together  with  divergent  conceptions,  and  had  formed 
one  of  the  myriad  nucleii  that  should  contribute  to  the 
stable  foundations  of  society.  Even  if  theirs  was  a  home 
in  little  more  than  name,  was  it  not  a  thing  to  be  retained, 
conserved,  preserved,  for  the  sake  of  the  general  welfare? 
.  .  .  Her  mother  had  faced  her  problem;  many  others — 
Alyth  and  his  wife,  dozens  whom  she  had  known,  had 
faced  their  marital  problems  and  had  decided  against  dis- 
ruption. Was  it  for  the  sake  of  a  principle  or  simply  per- 
sistence in  a  time-honored  course  of  action,  or  for  almost 
purely  economic  reasons?  Did  not  marriage  need  the 
application  of  a  newer  morality?  Was  not  mutual  love 
in  its  completest  sense  the  only  justification  for  marriage, 
in  both  its  inception  and  its  continuance?  .  .  .  Marriage, 
as  St.  Claire  had  entered  upon  it,  impressed  her  as  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  an  immorality,  an  immorality  univer- 
sally practised. 

Myra  lay  wide-eyed  in  the  night,  questioning,  listening 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

to  the  deadened  roar  of  the  city,  to  which  the  distant 
Elevated  gave  a  swell  and  ebb,  a  certain  rhythmic,  surf- 
like  succession.  When  her  mother  was  busied  with  her 
sisters,  or  with  some  New  Rome  friend,  Myra  went  about 
alone,  sitting  sometimes  in  the  parks,  pondering  in  a 
secondary,  pitying  way  the  problems  of  the  poor  that  were 
engrossing  far  wiser  heads  than  her  own. 

Or  she  strolled  Fifth  Avenue  with  a  much  better  under- 
standing of  the  life  crowding  its  pavements — the  endless 
procession  of  owned  women,  the  trafficked  female,  the  legal- 
ly acquired  indistinguishable  from  the  illegally  annexed, 
woman's  egregious  advertisement  of  man's  purchasing 
power.  Men  paid  and  so  did  women — some  as  she  was 
paying.  Heart-sick  and  soul-sick  to  the  point  of  mor- 
bidity as  Myra  was,  this  endless  stream  of  women  parad- 
ing the  basic  cause  of  such  marriages  as  hers,  the  secret 
made  plain  of  such  a  viewpoint  as  St.  Claire's,  first  fas- 
cinated Myra  in  the  explanations  it  offered,  then  affected 
her  to  nausea.  Stupefy  her  intelligence  and  accept  a  life- 
time of  compliance! 

Myra  would  turn  into  the  shops  for  relief,  not  to 
deaden  nostalgia  by  the  purchase  of  the  few  yards  of 
drapery  that  that  year's  mode  decreed  should  reveal  as 
much  as  possible  of  the  female  form,  but  for  another  pur- 
pose. She  spent  much  more  than  the  allotted  time  over 
the  purchase  of  a  Paquin,  or  a  Doucet,  or  a  chiffon  trifle 
subtly  designed  for  allure,  that  she  might  talk  to  the 
women  who  waited  on  her,  heads  of  departments,  some  of 
them  artists  in  their  way,  who  commanded  large  salaries. 
Myra  was  fascinated  by  their  viewpoint.  They  were 
out  shaping  life  for  themselves  as  completely  as  circum- 
stances allowed.  They  had  a  bitter  word  occasionally 
for  the  restrictions  laid  on  them  by  tradition. 

"There  is  no  provision  for  us  yet,"  one  intelligent 
woman  complained.  "The  world  is  arranged  for  men. 
Take  us  as  a  whole,  we  business  women,  we're  a  lonely  lot. 

132 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

We're  so  unsocial  to  one  another.  It's  only  to  men  we  are 
our  social  selves.  It  is  the  home  that  has  isolated  us — 
we've  been  in  training  for  it  so  long.  .  .  .  And  yet  I'd  not 
exchange  my  freedom  for  the  dependence  of  that  woman 
out  there  whose  gold  bag  and  her  Pomeranian  are  both 
provided  by  some  man." 

"It  must  be  sweet  to  be  mistress  of  one's  bed  and 
board,"  Myra  had  replied,  wistfully. 

For  there  was  a  temptation  dragging  at  Myra,  a  pull 
that  had  gained  force  with  the  days  and  nights  of  pon- 
dering— a  passionate  longing  for  freedom  of  choice  and 
action.  Why  should  she  return  to  the  huge  pretense  that 
was  her  husband? — to  a  life  that  smothered  her?  If  she 
willed  to  remain  where  she  was,  there  was  no  power  that 
could  transport  her.  ...  A  letter  to  her  husband,  and  the 
first  step  would  be  taken.  Right  or  wrong,  she  would 
have  chosen  her  way. 

The  days  passed,  bringing  the  first  faint  indications 
of  spring,  the  louder  twitter  of  the  sparrows  in  the  Park, 
the  earthy  smell  that  comes  with  the  first  sprouting  of 
grass-blades.  And  with  the  stirring  of  spring  there  had 
come  the  stirring  within  her,  the  urge  to  live  vividly, 
fully,  and  of  free  will. 

And  there  was  little  to  distract  Myra  from  her  thoughts, 
for  with  the  avoidance  of  one's  own  kind,  usual  to  self- 
absorption,  she  had  made  no  effort  to  seek  out  her  friends. 
If  it  occurred  to  her  to  wonder  why  neither  Janniss  nor 
Alyth  came  to  see  her,  it  was  merely  a  passing  thought; 
her  mother's  unobtrusive  presence  was  sufficient  com- 
panionship. They  frequently  sat  the  evening  through, 
Mrs.  Milenberg  in  her  low  chair  by  the  window,  and 
Myra  on  a  cushion  at  her  mother's  feet,  her  head  against 
her  mother's  knee.  Mrs.  Milenberg  talked  a  great  deal 
in  her  monotonous,  detailed  way,  and  Myra  listened  or 
was  far  off  with  her  thoughts,  conscious  only  of  the  loving 
fingers  that  smoothed  her  hair  and  touched  her  cheek. 

133 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  out  somewhere,  dear?" 
Mrs.  Milenberg  would  ask,  and  Myra's  answer  was  al- 
ways, "It  is  more  restful  here."  Mrs.  Milenberg  was 
content.  Widely  different  though  their  thoughts,  there 
was  the  unconscious  bond  that  held  them  closely;  each 
in  her  way  was  suffering. 

They  were  sitting  one  night,  as  usual,  looking  down 
on  the  interweaving  lights  of  the  Plaza,  when  St.  Claire's 
telegram  was  brought  to  Myra.  He  would  "start  for 
home"  in  two  days;  if  she  left  the  next  day  she  would 
arrive  shortly  before  him.  It  was  not  a  command — it 
was  a  thing  taken  for  granted.  Myra  read,  then  sat  with 
the  telegram  held  tightly  in  her  hot  hand.  She  looked 
down  and  not  at  her  mother.  She  had  come  suddenly 
to  the  parting  of  the  ways;  the  two  roads  lay  before  her. 

"It  is  not  bad  word,  is  it,  Myra?"  Mrs.  Milenberg 
asked,  quickly. 

"No — only  that  Justin  is  starting — back." 

"But  you  mustn't  go,  Myra!  You're  not  well  enough 
to  go,  dear." 

Myra  answered,  with  head  bent,  that  her  mother  might 
not  see  her  face,  "Would  you  like  to  keep  me  always?" 
The  quick  beating  of  her  heart  made  her  voice  thick. 
Her  prevision  saw  the  grief  and  fright  that  would  flood 
her  mother's  face  if  she  understood  aright. 

But  Mrs.  Milenberg  was  without  suspicion.  "No, 
because  your  place  is  with  your  husband;  but  I  want  you 
with  me  till  you  are  better." 

Myra  could  not  go  on. 

"You  must  write  and  tell  him,  Myra." 

"Yes — I  shall  write,"  Myra  said,  in  the  same  husky 
way. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  taking  cold  there  on  the  floor, 
dear.  You're  hoarse.  Sit  on  the  couch." 

"No,  no!  I  don't  want  to  move;  I'm  not  cold!" 
Myra  was  feeling  with  miserable  clearness  how  little  of 

134 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

a  free  agent  she  was;  how  interdependent  are  human 
interests.  The  words  that  rose  up  in  her  throat  would 
throw  her  mother  into  grief,  plunge  her  father  into  angry 
disappointment,  and  strike  at  her  husband's  closest  in- 
terests. And  there  would  be  a  questioning  world  to 
satisfy.  Myra  felt  she  would  strangle.  She  caught  her 
mother's  hand  and  held  it  to  her  cheek. 

"How  hot  your  face  is!"  her  mother  said. 

"Your  hand  is  lovely  and  cool,  mother."  They  were 
silent  for  the  time  during  which,  though  cast  from  one 
alternative  to  the  other,  desire  steadily  grew  in  Myra  until 
from  sheer  necessity  it  found  expression,  and  in  the  form 
often  chosen  when  wishing  to  soften  a  blow.  "Mother, 
I  have  a  friend  who  is  in  trouble.  She  has  not  been 
married  long,  but  she  is  very  unhappy.  Her  husband 
is  not  unkind  to  her — I  mean  in  any  brutal  way — but 
he  is  not  in  any  respect  the  kind  of  man  she  thought  he 
was.  She  never  expected  the  impossible  of  him,  because 
she  knew  something  of  things  as  they  are,  but  she  thought 
that  he  had  lived,  on  the  whole,  uprightly,  and  always 
with  the  longing  for  the  clean,  normal  thing:  for  a 
wife  and  children  and  a  home,  for  a  helpmate,  a  com- 
rade. She  found  out  almost  at  once  that  he  must  have 
cared  for  many  women,  that  he  cared  for  her  only  in  a 
physical  way,  that  the  money  she  would  bring  him  was 
her  main  attraction,  and  that  what  he  lives  for  is  power. 
That  he  is  not  honest — only  a  very  clever  hypocrite.  .  .  . 
She  cannot  endure  it,  mother.  She  neither  respects  nor 
loves  him — she  can't.  .  .  .  What  is  the  right  thing  for  her 
to  do?  ...  I  think  she  should  leave  him.  Marriage  with- 
out mutual  love  is  not  marriage."  Myra's  mouth  was 
dry  when  she  finished.  How  bald  it  sounded,  the  con- 
fession she  had  brought  out  with  such  pain! 

Mrs.  Milenberg  sat  quite  still,  her  hand  grown  lax 
against  her  daughter's  cheek.  She  was  not  so  slow  of 
perception  that  the  real  meaning  of  the  thing  she  had 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

just  heard  could  not  enter  her  consciousness.  In  her 
steady  adherence  to  what  she  considered  duty  Mrs. 
Milenberg  had  received  more  than  one  blow  without 
outcry,  with  only  the  blanched  lips  and  deeply  furrowed 
brow  that  hung  above  her  daughter  now.  She  had  also 
the  shrinking  from  forcing  a  confidence  that  made  her 
always  hover  about  her  children,  never  demanding,  only 
wretchedly  distressed.  And  now,  lest  she  frighten  Myra 
into  silence  or  less  transparent  deception,  she  began 
softly  to  stroke  her  cheek  again,  trying  to  keep  her  fingers 
from  trembling.  There  were  things  she  must  say,  and  for 
the  moment  she  was  dazed. 

"Is — your  friend's  husband  unfaithful  to  her?"  she 
asked. 

"Not  to  her  knowledge." 

"Would  she  think  it  right  to  leave  him,  Myra — with- 
out that  cause?" 

"She  has  asked  herself  that  question  many  times." 
And  then  all  unconsciously  Myra's  voice  deepened  into 
pleading.  "Mother,  she  is  wretched.  Yours  is  the  old 
idea,  mother.  Hasn't  it  been  proven  many  times  that 
it  is  merely  the  letter  of  the  law?  That  in  marriage  there 
are  other  sins  of  omission  and  commission  that  are  as 
inexcusable?" 

Her  mother  went  on  steadily.  "When  a  woman's 
life  is  threatened — yes.  But  it  is  not  like  that  with — 
with  your  friend.  .  .  .  Did  your — friend  marry  for  love 
of  herself,  dear,  or  for  love  of  her  husband?"  Mrs. 
Milenberg's  somewhat  slow  brain  was  striving  for  clear 
expression. 

"What  do  you  mean,  mother?"  Myra  asked,  arrested. 

"Did  she  marry  to  make  herself  happy,  or  was  she 
thinking  most  about  his  happiness?" 

"Possibly  she  was  thinking — more — of  herself — than 
of  him,"  Myra  said,  slowly.  "I  think  she  was  thinking 
— most — of  the  home  they  were  going  to  make — of  their 

136 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

children — of  the  life  they  would  have  together,  how  sweet 
it  would  be.  ...  She  told  him  on  their  wedding-night 
that  they  were  'life-builders. '  .  .  .  But  he  does  not  think 
of  marriage  in  that  way." 

"She  had  the  right  idea,  Myra.  Still,  if  love's  worth 
anything  it's  patient.  She  married  for  a  lifetime.  There's 
many  years  in  which  he  may  grow  up  to  her  idea,  and  she 
could  help  him  to  do  it." 

"He  hasn't  it  in  him,"  Myra  said,  huskily.  "If  he 
ever  had,  it  has  been  choked  out  of  him  by  the  way  he 
has  lived." 

"Is  she  so  wise  she  can  tell  all  that?  Don't  she  know 
what  her  example  and  patience  may  do  for  him  ?  Has  she 
tried  setting  his  welfare  first?  Has  she  ever  said  to  her- 
self, '  Would  I  be  making  a  better  man  of  him  by  leaving 
him?"  Mrs.  Milenberg's  voice  deepened.  "Life's  so 
terrible  long,  Myra,  and  it  teaches  a  lot.  .  .  .  With  your 
father,  now,  and  me — it  kills  me,  'most,  to  talk  of  it — but, 
Myra,  if  I  left  him — and  you  know  I've  cause — would  it 
make  a  better  man  of  him?  I'm  speaking  aside  from 
what's  my  duty  to  you  children — the  keeping  the  property 
for  you  by  holding  the  family  together.  If  I  left  him 
would  I  be  making  any  better  man  of  him?  I  wouldn't. 
I'm  not  clever,  Myra,  but  I've  thought  that  out.  I 
thought  it  out  long  ago.  I've  made  your  father  hold  to 
duty  so  far  as  you  children  are  concerned.  I've  made 
him  respect  his  home.  I've  made  him  see  the  difference 
between  a  wife  and  a  free  love;  that  I'm  to  be  counted 
on;  that  I'm  on  the  side  of  law  and  order;  that  I  stand 
for  what's  right,  and  that's  not  a  little  thing  to  have  done 
with  a  man  like  your  father" — her  voice  rose  a  little  and 
shook — "for,  Myra,  with  all  his  free  thinking,  and  his 
breaking  of  the  law,  and  his  wanting  a  younger  woman, 
I've  got  his  respect.  .  .  .  You  ask  your  father  of  all  the 
women  he's  known  which  he'd  call  a  good  woman,  and  he'll 
tell  you,  'your  mother1!"  She  stopped,  quivering  and 

137 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

breathless,  then  plunged  on.  "And,  Myra,  when  it  conies 
time  for  your  father  to  go,  if  I'm  spared  to  live  on,  do  you 
think  for  one  minute  it  will  be  that  thing  that  holds  to 
him  for  the  sake  of  his  money  he'll  want  beside  him? 
No.  I  know  it  as  well  as  I  know  I'm  living!"  The  shapeless, 
colorless  woman  was  suddenly  vivid,  passionate,  trans- 
formed. There  were  quick  running  currents  of  feeling 
beneath  her  passionate  words,  not  only  the  pointing  the 
way  to  a  child  over  whom  she  yearned,  but  the  very 
human  urge  to  assert  her  self-respect  to  another  woman 
who,  though  loving,  had  doubted. 

To  Myra  it  was  the  revelation  of  even  more.  "You 
must  love  him!"  she  said,  involuntarily.  "There  must  be 
a  joy  in  it  as  well  as  hurt — that  blind,  determined  love. 
I  haven't  it!  I  haven't  it!"  The  mother's  passion  had 
set  the  daughter  aflame;  made  the  blood  pound  in  her 
ears,  and  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  Under  the  stress 
of  feeling  she  rose  to  her  feet. 

Her  mother  clung  to  her  hand,  talking  rapidly.  "It 
isn't  all  love,  Myra — it's  duty.  I  was  brought  up  on  the 
Scripture,  and  its  commands  are  enough  for  me.  Take  the 
Bible  and  read  it.  It  teaches  self-sacrifice.  The  home's 
woman's.  It's  the  thing  she's  got  to  think  of  first,  and 
it's  the  thing  for  which  she's  got  to  sacrifice  herself.  For 
me — I  believe  there's  only  one  marriage,  and  that  death's 
the  only  thing  dissolves  it.  I  don't  believe  there's  a  half- 
way. Men,  because  of  their  different  natures,  may  go 
wrong — it's  a  great  pity  they  do — but  women  must  stand 
firm.  That's  my  way  of  believing.  I  don't  want  to  force 
it  on  anybody  else.  But,  Myra,  this  I  know,  I've  watched 
and  I  know.  If  a  woman  breaks  up  her  home — unless 
she's  got  awfully  good  reason — she's  doing  wrong.  A 
family  must  be  kept  together  if  it's  to  be  a  family  at  all ; 
and  the  woman  who  has  no  children,  she  should  stand 
for  it  for  the  sake  of  the  woman  who  has.  That's  the 
sacrifice  she's  got  to  make." 

138 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Myra  stood  breathing  quickly,  the  tears  scalding-hot 
on  her  cheeks.  Her  mother  had  swept  her  for  the  time 
being  into  the  emotional,  lifted  her  into  the  realm  of 
martyrdom — an  easy  transition.  Myra's  reason  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  her  tears  or  the  abrupt 
turn  she  made. 

Her  mother  came  after  her  and  caught  her  arm.  ' '  Myra, 
where  are  you  going?"  she  begged.  The  sudden  lift  of 
flame,  her  brief  self-assertion,  was  dropping  from  Mrs. 
Milenberg,  leaving  her  helpless  and  shaken.  It  was 
fright  over  her  child,  a  fear  she  had  always  had  of  this 
daughter's  going  wrong  in  life,  that  for  a  few  short  mo- 
ments had  transformed  Mrs.  Milenberg. 

"  I  am  going  to  pack,"  Myra  said.  "  I  am  going  home." 
Never,  even  to  her  chauffeur,  had  Myra  called  the  Wood- 
mansie  Place  house  "home." 

"Not  to  leave  me  to-night,  Myra?    You  are  not  fit!" 

"No;  in  the  morning."  She  put  her  hands  on  her 
mother's  shoulders,  looking  at  her  through  a  mist  of  tears. 
She  was  calmer,  more  herself.  "Forgive  me,  dear,  for 
the  impatient  things  I  have  sometimes  said.  You  were 
making  your  struggle  and  I  didn't  realize  it.  I  can't 
think  it  out  just  now,  I  can  only  cry,  but  I  know  that  we 
have  the  same  idea,  only  in  a  different  form.  It's  the  home 
we  love,  both  of  us." 

Her  mother  clung  to  her.  "What  do  you  mean  to  do, 
Myra?" 

"I  mean  to  try  again,  mother." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NICOLE  had  brought  to  Myra  the  accumulated  mail 
of  the  last  three  days,  together  with  St.  Claire's 
telegram  telling  her  at  what  hour  he  would  arrive  that 
night.  Myra  had  come  in  on  the  noon  train,  and  was 
still  in  her  traveling-gown,  with  the  dust  and  the  weari- 
ness of  the  journey  upon  her. 

She  was  not  thinking  actively.  Throughout  that  two 
days  of  travel,  whenever  her  thoughts  led  to  self-ques- 
tioning, she  turned  from  them.  She  had  chosen.  She 
did  not  want  to  think.  For  a  year  she  had  thought  con- 
tinuously, and  she  was  tired  of  it.  When  her  husband 
came  she  meant  to  tell  him  exactly  how  it  was  with  her. 
That  the  girl  he  had  married  was  dead,  but  that  she  was 
prepared  to  do  her  duty,  and  as  devotedly  as  was  possible 
to  her;  that  in  his  ambitions  she  would  assist  him  in  so 
far  as  her  conscience  would  permit.  Myra  meant  to 
make  an  end  of  pretense  in  their  relations  to  each  other. 
If  they  could  evolve  something  better  than  the  false 
relations  that  had  existed  between  them  for  months,  she 
would  be  glad.  She  meant  to  make  it  clear  that  she 
could  not  go  on  with  life  except  on  the  basis  of  an  honest 
understanding.  So  far  Myra  had  considered  and  decided. 

But  there  was  no  spring  in  her  step,  or  light  in  her  eye. 
The  exaltation  to  which  her  mother's  appeal  had  raised 
her  was  gone,  for  she  lacked  her  mother's  rearing.  The 
thing  that  had  remained  with  Myra  was  her  mother's 
arresting  question,  "Did  she  marry  to  make  herself 
happy,  or  was  she  thinking  most  of  his  happiness?" 
And  her  final  appeal,  "The  woman  who  has  no  children 

140 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

should  stand  for  the  home  for  the  sake  of  the  woman  who 
has."  .  .  .  Her  mother  knew  life  better  than  she. 

When  Woodmansie  Place  loomed  before  her,  Myra 
had  eyed  it  gravely.  When  she  entered  its  oppressive 
elegance  not  all  her  will  could  keep  at  bay  the  old  feeling 
of  distaste,  so  she  had  gone  as  directly  as  possible  to  her 
study  and  received  Nicole's  report  there.  She  still 
stood  while  she  rapidly  ran  through  her  mail,  a  glance 
and  her  waste-paper  basket  or  her  correspondence  files 
serving  her,  until  she  came  to  a  communication  that  was 
carefully  hand-printed. 

Myra  read  it;  then,  grown  white  to  the  lips,  looked 
down  at  the  ugly  thing  that  drooped  in  her  lax  hold. 
It  stared  up  at  her,  its  well-printed  letters  distinct  even 
at  that  distance: 

MRS.  JUSTIN  ST.  CLAIRE, — If  you  are  cognizant  of  certain 
facts,  my  communication  is  of  no  value — throw  it  aside.  If,  as 
I  think,  you  are  ignorant,  you  may  care  to  be  enlightened. 

Fifteen  years  ago  your  husband  took  as  his  mistress  Harriet 
Swift,  a  woman  who  was  his  secretary,  and  who  for  a  long  time 
afterward  acted  in  that  capacity.  She  is  a  clever  as  well  as  a 
beautiful  woman,  who  from  the  beginning  of  your  husband's 
connection  with  her  has  served  him  faithfully.  She  knows  more 
of  him  and  his  affairs  than  any  one  living.  Their  daughter, 
a  girl  of  fourteen,  is  in  a  convent  in  Paris,  under  the  name  of 
Swift.  She  knows  nothing  of  her  real  parentage,  for  Mrs.  Swift 
was  not  widowed  until  after  her  daughter  was  born. 

For  years  Mrs.  Swift  has  maintained  an  unassuming  but  com- 
fortable home  at  12  Acton  Place,  adjoining  the  Suburban  Rail- 
way. Mrs.  Swift  is  well  regarded  in  the  city.  She  is  highly 
respected  by  the  many  lawyers  and  judges  who  know  her. 

At  the  time  of  your  marriage  Mrs.  Swift  went  to  her  daughter 
in  Paris.  A  short  time  ago  she  returned  to  Acton  Place.  Aside 
from  your  husband,  George  Alyth  knows  her  better,  perhaps, 
than  any  one  else. 

From 

ONE  WHO  KNOWS. 
141 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

It  had  come  to  her  mother  in  much  the  same  way,  and 
her  mother  had  dropped  under  the  blow.  Myra  received 
it  standing.  She  kept  her  feet  through  the  first  hot  misery 
over  a  deceit  so  deliberately  practised.  How  character- 
istic of  her  husband!  It  had  been  one  long  disillusion 
culminating  in  this.  The  wound  from  which  she  was 
suffering  had  been  inflicted  long  ago,  the  slow  entering 
of  a  knife  that  just  now  had  been  too  roughly  turned  in 
the  wound  and  pressed  home.  The  pain  of  it  sickened 
her,  choked  her,  set  her  to  groping  for  a  seat. 

As  she  gained  the  power  to  think  more  connectedly, 
it  did  not  occur  to  Myra  to  doubt.  This  revelation  of 
the  man  she  had  married  was  so  in  keeping  with  his  na- 
ture as  she  had  learned  to  know  it.  ...  She  had  pleaded 
so  earnestly  for  frankness,  a  more  honest  exchange  than 
was  usual  between  men  and  women,  and  St.  Claire's 
assurance,  intelligible  enough  to  her  now,  was  distinct 
in  her  memory.  "You  can  trust  yourself  to  me.  I  do 
not  mean  that  I  have  been  faultless,  but  I  have  tried  to 
hold  very  strictly  to  the  standards  of  my  fathers,  honor- 
able gentlemen  every  one  of  them."  He  had  spoken 
truth.  The  dismissal  of  a  woman  who  for  fifteen  years 
had  served  him  would  be  in  accordance  also  with  the 
standards  of  his  fathers.- .  .  .  And  her  return  to  service? 

Myra  sat  thinking  for  hours  beside  a  fire  that  burned 
itself  to  ashes.  Late  in  the  afternoon  Nicole  brought  her 
the  cards  of  callers,  and  stood  arrested.  Madame  was 
still  dressed  as  she  was  when  she  came  from  the  train; 
she  had  not  even  removed  the  veil  that  bound  her  hat. 
He  knelt  hastily  to  rebuild  the  fire,  his  face  stamped 
with  the  inseeing  expression  of  the  model  butler.  Then, 
as  Myra  remained  unconscious  of  his  presence,  the  man 
stole  a  second  look  at  her.  She  was  dead  white,  even  her 
lips  colorless.  In  the  framing  of  black  gown  and  veil 
she  looked  ghastly. 

"Shall  I  bring  rnadame  her  tea?"  he  asked,  properly, 

142 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

Myra  was  liked  by  her  servants;  she  had  always  shown 
them  consideration. 

She  looked  at  him  heavily.  "Nicole  .  .  .  what  time 
is  it?" 

"Quatre  heures,  madame." 

"Order  the  car — please — " 

"Oui,  madame.  ...  Is  it  ill  news,  madame?"  he  ven- 
tured. 

"Only  what  might  have  been  expected."  Myra  took 
the  letter  from  the  table,  and  folding  it,  put  it  in  the 
bosom  of  her  gown.  She  rose  and  motioned  the  man  to 
help  her  with  her  coat. 

Myra  had  a  vague  impression  of  the  direction  she  wished 
to  take.  It  was  cityward,  and  southeast  of  Woodmansie 
Place.  When  she  attempted  to  direct  him,  the  chauffeur 
looked  at  her  in  the  same  startled  way  as  the  butler. 
Her  features  were  not  distinct,  because  of  her  veil,  but 
her  voice  had  lost  inflection,  as  if  she  had  grown  deaf. 

He  knew  the  street.  "It's  a  sort  of  blind  alley  which 
gets  it  called  a  Place,  I  suppose,"  he  explained.  "I  ran 
into  it  once,  and  had  to  turn  around  and  come  out. 
Some  nice  houses  there,  though." 

They  came  by  cross-streets,  with  the  trend  always 
eastward  and  southward,  to  the  electric  railway  that  is 
one  of  the  city's  big  suburban  arteries.  The  commodious 
house,  neat  in  its  coating  of  white  paint,  and  given  char- 
acter by  green  shutters,  stood  on  an  embankment  above 
the  railway.  It  was  well  surrounded  by  trees,  the  rail- 
way side  being  smothered  by  shrubs  and  evergreens  that 
completely  hid  the  side  entrance  of  the  house.  A  well- 
worn  path  led  up  the  bank  to  a  small  gate. 

Myra  ordered  her  chauffeur  to  stop  short  of  the  flight 
of  stone  steps  that  graced  the  front  of  the  house.  The 
little  path  that  went  up  the  bank  from  the  railway  wore 
the  more  traveled  look.  She  told  him  to  wait,  and  climbed 
the  bank  to  the  gate.  Here  the  path  took  her  through 

143 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

a  tangle  of  shrubs  and  evergreens  to  a  side  porch.  The 
March  day  was  mild  enough  to  hint  of  spring — a  commin- 
gling of  wet  earth  and  the  pleasant  odors  of  cedar  and  pine 
that  carried  Myra  back  vividly  to  the  cottage  among  the 
pines  on  the  Tennessee  mountain  where  she  had  begun 
life  with  St.  Claire. 

Myra  realized  at  once  who  it  was  who  opened  the  door 
to  her,  and  from  the  ripple  of  expression  that  crossed 
the  woman's  face  she  knew  that  she  was  recognized.  It 
was  merely  a  lift  and  settling  of  the  woman's  broad 
black  brows,  but  it  was  sufficient.  They  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes  during  a  perceptible  pause  before 
Myra  asked: 

"This  is  Mrs.  Swift?" 

"Yes,"  the  woman  said,  quietly. 

"I  am  Mrs.  St.  Claire.     May  I  come  in?" 

The  woman's  answer  was  to  hold  the  door  wide — a 
fearless  gesture  that  was  in  keeping  with  her  entire  per- 
sonality. She  was  superbly  formed,  of  unusual  height 
for  a  woman,  a  splendid  head  set  on  generous  shoulders. 
Deep-bosomed  and  ample,  with  the  waist  and  hips  of 
a  Juno,  her  black  gown,  French  in  every  line,  draped  a 
wonderful  body.  And  her  face  was  quite  as  remarkable. 
Its  luminous  pallor  was  given  distinction  by  raven- 
black  hair  and  brows — broad,  level  brows  above  ice-gray 
eyes.  The  cheeks  were  neither  rounded  nor  hollow — a  face 
from  which  youth  had  departed,  but  that  was  still  pos- 
sessed of  a  firmness  according  with  the  generous  mouth 
and  solidly  molded  chin.  In  the  long  look  they  ex- 
changed each  judged  of  the  other. 

Myra  stepped  into  a  room  that  reminded  her  over- 
whelmingly of  St.  Claire.  It  had  the  same  tinting,  the 
same  rugs  and  hangings,  as  his  study  in  the  old  St.  Claire 
house.  The  andirons  on  the  hearth  were  a  companion 
pair  to  those  in  the  study.  Yet  Myra  had  the  curious 
feeling  that  she  was  alien  to  it  all,  an  interloper  amid 

144 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

surroundings  that  had  at  one  time  been  so  intimately 
hers. 

She  came  to  the  hearth,  and  without  invitation  sat 
down.  Mrs.  Swift  followed  her,  bent,  and  stirred  the 
fire  until  it  burned  brightly,  then  seated  herself  opposite 
her  visitor.  She  moved  deliberately,  her  face  as  expres- 
sionless as  if  carved  in  wood.  "It  is  chilly,"  she  said. 

Myra  did  not  answer  her.  Her  hand  had  gone  to  the 
bosom  of  her  dress,  and  then  she  paused,  her  eyes  lowered, 
considering.  Mrs.  Swift  studied  her  absorbedly,  her  deli- 
cate contour,  the  exquisite  profile  that  was  saved  from 
expressionless  perfection  by  the  intelligent  width  of  brow. 
With  lowered  lashes  the  face  was  pensive;  when  lighted 
by  her  wide,  questioning  look,  remarkable.  Young  and 
slender,  everything  about  this  woman  suggested  delicacy; 
and  yet,  despite  her  extreme  paleness  and  the  droop  of 
her  deeply  curved  lips,  her  face  was  vital.  The  waves  of 
her  dark  hair  had  a  bronze  sheen;  the  chin  possessed  de- 
cision. And  her  eyes  were  extraordinary.  When  Myra 
looked  full  at  her,  Mrs.  Swift  noticed  how  widely  their 
pupils  were  dilated. 

"Before  I  tell  you  what  brought  me,"  Myra  said,  de- 
liberately, "I  want  you  to  know  that  I  do  not  come  with 
hostile  feelings.  ...  I  simply  want  to  understand — fully. 
...  Of  course  you  know  that  I  have  been  ignorant.  If 
I  had  known,  I  should  never  have  married — Mr.  St. 
Claire." 

Utterly  in  earnest  though  she  was,  and  in  the  grip  of 
distress,  Myra  had  not  lost  her  grace  of  expression.  The 
woman  was  silent — a  waiting  silence. 

Myra  drew  the  letter  from  her  dress  and  held  it  out 
to  her.  "When  I  returned  from  New  York  I  found  this. 
Will  you  tell  me  whether  or  not  it  is  true?  .  .  .  /  feel  that 
it  is.  Am  I  mistaken?" 

Harriet  Swift  took  it  and  read  it  through,  then  read  it  a 
second  time,  her  eyes  bent  to  it  so  long  that  Myra  knew 

145 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

she  .was  thinking,  not  reading.  The  only  change  in  her 
expression  was  the  tinge  of  color  that  crept  into  her 
cheeks.  When  she  looked  up  her  cold  eyes  had  more 
warmth. 

"Do  you  know  who  wrote  this?"  she  asked. 

"No." 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  it  was  not  Alyth;  this  is 
some  woman's  work."  There  was  force  in  her  quiet  as- 
sertion. 

"I  could  not  conceive  of  Mr.  Alyth's  doing  such  a 
thing,  though  I  think  he  knows.  It  seems  that  a  man 
must  keep  a  man's  secrets,"  Myra  said,  too  quietly  for 
bitterness.  She  remembered  well  the  question  she  had 
asked  Alyth  in  New  Rome,  and  his  answer.  A  word, 
a  man's  warning  to  another  man,  and  she  would  have 
been  saved  what  she  was  enduring. 

"That  is  one  of  the  things  that  must  be  taken  for 
granted.  In  a  matter  like  this  there  are  several  things 
that  must  be  taken  for  granted,"  the  woman  returned, 
coldly. 

"The  letter  tells  the  truth,  then?" 

Mrs.  Swift  studied  Myra's  wide  look.  "Are  you  ask- 
ing me  that,  woman  to  woman,  a  confidence  given  by 
one  woman  to  another,  and  to  be  kept  as  such?"  she 
asked,  finally. 

"Yes.  Mr.  St.  Claire  is  the  only  one  to  whom  I  shall 
mention  you  or  the  circumstances.  It  is  a  matter  that 
lies  between  us  three.  Who  else  does  it  concern?"  Myra's 
voice  had  deepened  and  grown  vibrant. 

"  It  concerns  a  fourth — my  little  girl,  who  is  innocent 
of  it  all."  Mrs.  Swift  touched  the  paper  that  lay  on  her 
knee.  "If  I  were  brought  into  court,  I  would  deny  this 
outright.  So  would  Justin.  And  we  would  be  believed. 
He  would  consider  that  he  was  guarding  a  woman's 
honor,  and  I  have  my  daughter  to  shield.  I'd  stop  at 
nothing  where  she's  concerned.  Neither  Alyth  nor  any 

146 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

one  else  can  offer  proof.  .  .  .  What  I  may  tell  you  has 
nothing  to  do  with  what  I'll  say  if  I'm  forced  to  it!  You 
understand  that,  don't  you?"  For  the  first  time  she 
showed  emotion,  a  passionate  intensity  that,  like  her 
gestures,  suddenly  burst  from  her  and  was  instantly  con- 
trolled. She  had  shown  for  a  moment  all  the  crude  force 
of  the  uncultured  woman.  Her  face  broadened  under 
passion.  She  looked  the  peasant. 

"I  am  not  thinking  about  courts  or  law,"  Myra  said, 
in  the  same  deep,  vibrant  way.  "What  have  they  to 
do  with  marriage — the  real  marriage!  That  is  a  thing 
of  intention,  of  oneness  in  a  higher  sense.  Without  it 
marriage  is  nothing  but  a  mere  legal  procedure.  I  tell 
you  again — what  I  want  is  to  understand." 

It  had  sprung  from  the  depths  of  her,  the  conviction 
bred  in  her  during  childhood  and  girlhood.  Her  mother's 
traditional  attitude  and  her  emotional  appeal  had  slipped 
from  Myra  like  a  misfit  garment.  Shock  had'  stripped 
her  creed  of  all  that  was  nebulous;  she  held  it  firmly 
grasped  now. 

Mrs.  Swift  stared  a  moment.  "So  you  think  as  I  used 
to!  ...  Well,  it's  true  that  Justin  and  I  took  each  other 
a  deal  more  honestly  than  he  ever  took  the  crazy  rich 
girl  he  married,  or  than  I  took  my  husband — "  She 
stopped,  holding  back  some  further  remark,  some  addition 
or  retraction.  She  had  herself  under  control  again,  her 
grave  eyes  studying  Myra. 

"When  I  thought  over  that  letter,  and  considered 
just  what  must  have  been  the  circumstances,  I  wondered 
if  it  wasn't  so." 

"It  was.  No  matter  what  has  grown  out  of  it,  it  was." 
She  was  moved  again  by  some  deep  undercurrent  of  feel- 
ing that  wiped  the  coldness  from  her  face.  She  leaned 
over,  touching  Myra  in  her  earnestness.  "You  have 
an  open  mind.  .  .  .  Now  listen  a  moment  till  I  tell  you 
how  it  was  with  me — a  thing  or  two  this  letter  didn't. 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

I  was  born  on  a  farm  near  New  Rome,  one  of  the  Alyth 
farms.  My  people  were  Alsatians — peasants  from  the 
old  country.  They  worked  old  Alyth's  farm;  that  is 
the  way  I  knew  George  Alyth.  You  know  New  Rome — 
you  know  that  anything  possessed  of  ambition  wants 
to  get  out  of  it.  You  know  how  the  Alsatians  at  New 
Rome  used  to  work  their  women;  in  the  harvest  field, 
as  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water.  That  was  what 
we  were.  The  men  held  the  money,  and  the  women 
toiled  for  food  and  clothes.  I've  planted  acres  of  corn, 
and  harvested  wheat  side  by  side  with  the  men,  before 
I  was  sixteen.  But  in  the  winters  I  went  to  school,  and 
that  was  where  the  rub  came.  Most  of  us  are  a  dumb 
lot.  I  wasn't.  I  wouldn't  hew  wood  and  draw  water 
after  I  got  the  idea  that  I  could  do  something  better. 
I  made  them  send  me  to  high  school.  Then  a  man  came 
to  town  who  had  a  business  class.  I  went  to  that.  George 
Alyth  has  done  me  many  a  kindness — he's  white,  Alyth 
is.  It  was  he  who  heard  of  a  position  in  a  law-office  and 
helped  me  get  the  place — Moore  and  Kilpatrick.  Mr. 
Moore  was  his  uncle,  his  mother's  brother.  I  was  just 
their  stenographer,  but  I  heard  law  talked  there  from 
morning  to  night.  It  interested  me.  I  had  an  aptitude 
for  legal  papers;  it's  a  gift  some  women  have,  and  that 
kind  of  woman  is  invaluable  to  a  lawyer.  If  I  had  had 
a  man's  chance,  and  more  education,  I  would  have  made 
a  good  lawyer. 

"Well,  occasionally  some  Chicago  lawyer  or  some  one 
from  here  would  have  to  do  with  a  case  in  New  Rome, 
and  come  there.  That  was  the  way  in  which  I  met  my 
husband — in  Moore's  office.  He  was  a  clever  lawyer 
when  he  didn't  drink.  I  knew  nothing  of  his  habits — 
I  only  knew  that  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  every  bit  of 
me  longed  for  that.  I  hated  the  heavy  men  I  had  grown 
up  among.  He  was  infatuated  with  me,  and  I  was 
proud  of  the  step  up  he  was  giving  me.  We  were  married 

148 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

by  the  priest  in  New  Rome,  for  we  were  both  Catholics, 
and  then  he  brought  me  here. 

"I  began  life  then,  and  in  less  than  four  years'  time  I 
drained  my  cup  to  the  dregs.  With  my  husband  it  was 
drink,  drink,  drink.  He  had  caught  at  me  as  the  straw 
that  might  stop  him  in  his  downward  course.  After  the 
first  few  months  he  was  never  sober.  When  he  married 
me  his  practice  was  going  to  pieces;  in  three  years'  time 
it  was  gone  and  we  were  in  want.  Then  in  a  fit  of  des- 
peration he  did  a  thing  that  disbarred  him.  He  never 
rallied  from  that;  that  took  his  last  shred  of  self-respect; 
he  became  a  perfect  sot.  ...  I  could  have  shaken  him 
off,  I  could  have  divorced  him,  but  my  religion  forbade 
that,  and  in  those  days  I  held  to  my  religion.  .  .  .  And  in 
spite  of  what  I've  done  I  still  hold  to  it." 

She  had  drawn  back,  the  eagerness  gone  from  her  voice 
and  manner.  She  stroked  the  smooth  satin  on  her  knee, 
then,  drawing  it  up,  laid  it  in  accurate  folds,  no  longer 
looking  at  Myra,  but  at  what  she  was  doing.  "I  don't 
mean  to  go  out  of  life  without  seeing  a  priest — I  couldn't," 
she  said,  evenly.  "I've  gotten  all  over  the  feeling  that 
my  life  was  my  own  to  do  what  I  wanted  to  with  it. 
I've  gotten  over  my  kick  against  marriage.  As  long  as 
things  are  as  they  are,  as  long  as  there  is  no  provision 
for  the  woman  who  makes  her  own  marriage,  and  no  pro- 
vision for  her  children,  as  long  as  men's  viewpoint  is  what 
it  is,  she'd  better  cling  to  marriage.  .  .  .  But  I  should  be 
granted  absolution.  There  are  thousands  of  worse  women 
than  me  smiling  in  their  husband's  faces  and  holding  their 
heads  high  in  society.  I  know  a  few  of  them — Justin 
has  had  to  do  with  some  of  them — I  know  all  about  it. 
But  I,  I  took  a  man — without  sanction,  I  know;  but  in 
all  the  years  I  have  known  him  I've  never  looked  at  an- 
other man — not  in  that  way.  I  tried  to  be  true  to  my 
faith.  Divorce  would  have  been  a  worse  sin  than  what 
I  did.  I  stayed  bound  to  a  creature  that  should  have 

149 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

been  locked  up.  I  supported  him,  and  when  his  time 
came  I  buried  him  decently  and  had  masses  said  for  his 
soul.  If  I  hadn't  seen  him  through  as  I  did,  perhaps 
things  might  have  been  different.  A  woman  like  me — 
I  could  have  married,  and  then  my  little  girl  would  have 
had  a  name  that  belonged  to  her;  it  is  she  I  think  of 
oftenest  now." 

She  sighed  and  stopped  smoothing  her  dress,  her  cold 
eyes  again  on  Myra.  "You  see,  I  had  it  hard,  and  my 
ideal  tempted  me.  I've  noticed  with  us  women,  those  of 
us  who  are  not  just  animals,  or  merely  mercenary,  and  yet 
who  go  contrary  to  the  law  that's  been  laid  down  for  us, 
it's  not  nearly  so  often  that  we're  urged  on  by  passion 
as  that  we  want  to  gratify  an  ideal.  We're  ready  to  give 
ourselves  for  it;  we're  different  from  men  in  that  way. 
Back  on  the  farm  I  had  my  ideal.  The  broad-faced  men, 
my  people,  who  treated  their  women  like  they  did  their 
plow-horses,  disgusted  me.  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  first 
man  who  impressed  me  as  a  gentleman.  I  wanted  nice 
speech  and  delicate  manners.  I  got  them,  but  a  terrible 
thing  with  them  that  makes  a  brute  of  the  gentlest-born 
man. 

"  It  was  when  we  were  in  actual  want  that  Justin  took 
me  into  his  office.  He  knew  my  husband's  history — 
every  lawyer  in  the  city  did,  and  they  all  pitied  me.  Ask 
any  of  the  old,  well-established  lawyers  here  and  see 
what  they  will  say  of  me!  That  letter!  They  would 
throw  it  into  their  waste-paper  baskets!  A  slander! 
Believe  harm  of  me?  Not  they.  They  know  me  as  a 
brain,  you  see,  the  best  assistant  a  lawyer  was  ever  blessed 
with.  With  the  average  man — if  a  woman  can  convince 
him  of  her  brain — she  stands  stripped  of  emotion  in  his 
estimation.  They  haven't  learned  yet  to  harness  the 
two  ideas  together.  They  can't  realize  that  we're  a 
combination  of  intellect  and  emotions  just  as  they  are. 
In  all  these  years  Justin  has  not  made  that  discovery. 

150 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

He's  denser  even  than  most.  He  only  knows  in  a  blind 
sort  of  way  that  I  can  give  him  what  no  other  woman 
can,  and  it's  partly  because  he's  comfortable  with  me — 
he  need  never  pretend.  I'd  take  my  oath  that  there's 
never  been  a  man  of  Justin's  type  who  had  not  some- 
where a  woman  to  whom  he  is  utterly  himself,  and  she 
is  the  woman  who  really  holds  him.  It's  she  should  be 
his  wife. 

"You  see,  I  knew  Justin  in  early  days.  I  worked  for 
him  as  I  know  how  to  work.  I  made  myself  invaluable. 
In  trying  to  save  my  husband  from  ruin  I  had  learned 
a  deal  about  the  law.  When  he  wasn't  fit  to  draw  up 
papers  I  did  it  for  him.  I  always  coached  him  before 
he  went  into  court.  I  used  to  go  over  every  case  with 
him.  When  I  learned  Justin's  business  and  his  methods 
I  was  just  as  much  needed.  I  was  his  right  hand — in 
many  cases  his  brain.  I  have  a  man's  head  for  business, 
a  deal  better  head  than  Justin's.  It  got  to  be  that  he 
rarely  made  a  move  without  me,  for  when  he  did  he  had 
reason  to  regret  it.  If  he'd  kept  me  by  him  right  along 
it  would  have  been  better  for  him.  I  am  the  only  crea- 
ture living  who  knows  all  of  Justin  St.  Claire." 

The  letter  had  slipped  from  her  knee  and  lay  on  the 
floor  between  them,  and  she  pointed  to  it. 

"That  was  what  grew  out  of  it  all.  It  wasn't  just  the 
ordinary  thing.  Justin  was  tied  to  a  witless  girl,  and  I 
was  a  woman  with  a  big  brain  and  passions  as  strong  as 
any  man's.  And  I  was  bound  to  a  man  who  had  for- 
gotten he  had  ever  shaken  hands  with  a  gentleman.  I 
was  hungry  for  his  opposite.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know  Justin's 
faults!"  she  said,  her  look  kindling  as  Myra  shrank  invol- 
untarily. "They  have  grown  on  him — they  are  faults 
that  do  grow  on  a  man.  Look  at  the  clean  boys  of  twenty 
who  grow  into  the  shaky  men  of  fifty.  And  a  lifetime  of 
keeping  things  carefully  covered  eats  deep — that's  one  of 
the  curses  that's  laid  upon  a  relationship  like  ours.  But 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

remember,  Justin  and  I  took  each  other  when  he  was  only 
twenty-six  and  when  he  was  in  trouble  because  of  his 
first  big  mistake.  Show  me  the  woman  who  wouldn't 
have  loved  Justin  back  at  that  time.  He  hadn't  hard- 
ened yet  and  grown  so  smooth;  he  wasn't  mastered  yet 
by  habit."  She  drew  a  short  breath.  "Yes,  I  know 
Justin's  faults,  just  as  I  know  that  there's  something 
hard  in  me  that  has  held  me  to  him  in  spite  of  it  all — 
perhaps  something  decent,  too.  We're  complexities,  Justin 
and  I,  though  of  different  sorts;  and  yet  we  are  suited 
to  each  other.  The  truth  is"  —  and  she  squared  her 
shoulders  as  she  delivered  her  ultimatum — "Justin  St. 
Claire  and  I  are  mates,  and  when  that's  said  all's  said." 

"Yes,"  Myra  said,  slowly,  "I  see."  She  looked  away 
from  her  companion,  down  at  the  letter  on  the  floor. 
The  confession  to  which  she  had  listened  impressed  her 
as  extraordinary  in  its  curious  revelation  of  character. 
The  woman's  fearless  personality — fearless  except  when 
she  visioned  the  priest — dominated  the  place.  Myra 
sat  withdrawn  and  with  eyes  lowered.  Had  their  posi- 
tions been  reversed,  they  would  to  outward  appearance 
have  filled  very  perfectly  the  traditional  rdles.  And  in 
reality  Myra  did  feel  that  unknowingly  she  had  robbed 
this  woman. 

Myra  felt  that  she  had  listened  to  the  truth.  She  was 
endeavoring  to  grapple  with  it,  to  treat  it  sanely  and  ir- 
respective of  her  pride.  In  spite  of  her  dismissal,  and  the 
legal  barrier  St.  Claire  had  erected  between  them,  this 
woman  claimed  him.  Myra  understood.  In  a  large,  vast- 
ly possessive  way  she  was  fighting  for  what  she  considered 
her  due.  She  was  not  petty  about  it.  There  was  a  big 
sincerity  about  her.  She  was  candid,  and  at  the  same 
time  she  was  loyal  to  the  man  she  claimed  as  her  mate. 
She  was  deeply  tender  to  their  unacknowledged  child. 
Myra  had  come  asking  for  enlightenment,  and  she  clung 
to  her  position. 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Why  did  Justin  marry  me?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Swift  had  a  cool  answer  to  that  question,  as  she 
had  had  to  others.  "He  married  you  as  he  married  his 
first  wife — for  'reasons  of  state.'  What  he  felt  for  you 
was  something  very  different  from  the  big  thing  there 
has  been  between  him  and  me.  In  the  years  I  have  known 
Justin  he  has  wandered  into  more  than  one  bypath — only 
to  find  them  blind  alleys.  He  has  always  turned  about 
and  returned  to  me.  He  can't  live  without  me."  The 
assertion  was  too  calm  for  triumph. 

Myra  went  on  steadily.  "And.  feeling  the  need,  he 
sent  for  you." 

"Yes."  She  was  not  a  woman  who  nodded  or  helped 
out  her  speech  with  palliative  gestures.  "Justin's  is  the 
monarchical  idea.  His  wife  upholds  his  estate  before  the 
world;  it's  his  mistress  who  rules  his  heart.  .  .  .  When 
you  come  right  down  to  it,  it's  the  idea  that  lurks  in  the 
back  of  most  men's  brains."  She  looked  down  and  be- 
gan smoothing  her  dress  as  she  had  when  she  spoke  of 
her  religion,  her  voice  grown  dry.  "It  took  me  years  to 
discover  that.  When  he  was  free  to  marry  me  if  he 
would,  I  began  to  realize,  and  when  he  asked  me  for  his 
release  and  married  you,  I  realized  fully."  She  lifted 
cold  eyes  to  Myra's  wide  look,  her  lips  tightening  on  the 
words,  "But  by  the  same  token  I  knew  the  time  would 
come  when  he  would  want  me." 

"And  you  met  in  Washington  —  before  you  came 
here." 

The  color  showed  in  the  woman's  cheeks  as  it  had 
when  she  read  the  letter.  She  did  not  look  away  from 
Myra,  though  for  a  moment  she  paused.  Then  she  said, 
simply:  "For  a  dozen  years  Justin  has  called  upon  me 
when  he  needed  me."  Her  color  faded  as  she  continued: 
"  I  was  in  Paris  for  over  a  year.  As  I  said,  it  would  have 
been  better  for  Justin  if  he  had  kept  me  here.  I  told  you 
he  rarely  made  a  move  without  consulting  me.  I  know 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

his  business  as  no  one  else  does.  He  has  already  made 
mistakes;  he  couldn't  go  on  without  me." 

She  had  passed  over  the  thing  that  lay  between  them, 
and  Myra  let  it  pass.  She  rose  to  go. 

"Thank  you  for  what  you  have  told  me,"  she  said. 
"You  have  given  me  a  great  deal  to  consider." 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  you  intend  to  do?" 
Mrs.  Swift  asked.  "I  have  been  honest  with  you." 

"I  don't  know — exactly,"  Myra  answered,  thought- 
fully. "I  don't  want  to  do  anything  that  will  hurt  you 
or  your  little  girl.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  what  is  she  like — your 
little  girl?" 

Myra's  voice  had  dropped  into  softer  cadence.  It  was 
a  questioning  that  was  hesitant  with  feeling,  a  touch  of 
wistfulness.  Throughout  their  long  conversation  Myra 
had  felt  a  hurt  that  she  had  tried  determinedly  to  hide. 
Her  life  lay  in  pieces  about  her.  She  had  hoped  for  so 
much,  given  so  much,  and  had  received  nothing  in  return. 
This  woman  had  given  also,  but  she  had  the  supreme  pos- 
session. During  every  moment  of  the  time  she  had  sat 
and  listened  Myra's  thoughts  had  hovered  about  this 
woman's  child.  She  felt  a  shyness  in  asking. 

Mrs.  Swift's  face  changed  subtly — a  sagging  of  the 
muscles  about  her  mouth  that  aged  her.  She  looked 
down  at  her  hands.  "She  is  a  little  thing;  she  will  never 
be  anything  else,"  she  said.  "She  is  lame." 

"Ah!"  Myra  breathed.  And  after  a  long  pause,  "She 
will  have  to  be  taken  care  of  always." 

Mrs.  Swift's  answer  was  a  look.    Her  eyes  had  clouded. 

"I  will  never  do  anything  to  hurt  her,"  Myra  repeated. 
"You  know  that." 

"I  don't  believe  you  would,"  Mrs.  Swift  said,  a  little 
indistinctly.  Then  she  gathered  herself  together.  "And 
I  haven't  meant  to  hurt  you.  I  haven't  hurt  you,  really. 
You  don't  love  Justin.  A  woman  like  you — you  will  have 
your  chance.  .  .  .  But  you  will  never  make  Justin  see 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

things  as  you  see  them.  If  it  were  not  for  my  little  girl, 
and  for  Justin's  interests — my  interests,  too,  for  what- 
ever touches  him  affects  my  child  and  me — I  could  come 
out  openly.  That  would  help  you.  But  as  it  is,  you  and 
I  are  in  opposite  camps.  Still,  I  think  we  understand 
each  other.  I  knew  as  soon  as  you  began  to  speak  that 
you  are  one  of  those  to  whom  it  is  wisest  to  tell  the  truth. 
Justin  would  have  done  better  if  he  had  realized  that." 

"I  wish  he  had,"  Myra  said,  her  lips  beginning  to 
tremble.  "He  has  taken  my  girlhood  from  me;  no  one 
can  ever  give  me  that  back." 

"You've  paid  the  penalty  for  living." 

"Yes."  Myra  looked  down  at  the  letter  on  the  floor 
through  brimming  eyes,  and  Mrs.  Swift  studied  her 
gravely,  intently.  When  Myra  straightened  and  turned 
away  without  any  motion  to  take  it  up,  the  color  showed 
again  in  the  older  woman's  cheeks,  and  when  at  the  door 
Myra  offered  her  hand  the  flush  rose  in  her  eyes  as  well, 
robbing  them  of  their  chill. 

But  she  said  nothing.    They  shook  hands  silently. 

ii 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IT  was  after  midnight  when  St.  Claire  came  into  Myra's 
room.  He  entered  quietly  and  came  up  to  the  hearth 
where  she  was  kneeling,  burning  papers.  On  the  table 
were  several  packages  of  letters,  and  on  the  floor  were 
piled  the  books  she  had  taken  from  the  shelves. 

St.  Claire  saw  it  all  at  a  glance — and  what  it  indicated. 
"You  are  up  late,  Myra,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Myra  started,  for,  busied  as  she  was,  she  had  not  heard 
him  come  in.  She  rose  and  stood  braced  against  the 
mantel-shelf,  her  hands  gripping  it  nervously.  She 
looked  hectic;  either  the  heat  of  the  fire  or  excitement 
had  set  vivid  spots  of  color  in  her  cheeks,  signs  of  anima- 
tion quite  out  of  keeping  with  her  heavy  eyes.  Dark- 
circled  by  fatigue,  they  appeared  immense.  She  only 
looked  at  him;  she  did  not  speak. 

"Haven't  you  chosen  an  uncanny  hour  for  house- 
cleaning?"  St.  Claire  asked,  smoothly. 

He  did  not  offer  to  approach  her,  he  had  not  even  ex- 
tended his  hand,  and  with  a  sense  of  relief  Myra  realized 
that  he  was  acquainted  with  the  incidents  of  the  after- 
noon. His  train  had  been  due  some  three  hours  earlier, 
and  as  Myra  hurried  about  her  tasks  it  had  occurred  to 
her  that  he  would  go  first  to  Acton  Place.  That  very 
probably  he  had  named  a  later  train  than  he  intended  to 
take;  it  would  be  a  procedure  natural  to  him.  If  he  al- 
ready knew,  she  was  saved  much  that  she  had  dreaded— 
the  painful  repetition  of  what  she  had  learned,  and  his 
almost  certain  denial.  She  had  shrunk  from  that  useless 

156 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

denial  as  one  would  from  the  continued  probing  of  a 
sensitive  nerve.     She  made  clear  her  intention  at  once. 

"I  have  been  packing,"  she  said. 

St.  Claire  looked  about  him  for  a  moment  in  his  brilliant, 
unmoved  way.  He  was  pale  and  his  eyes  were  alight,  his 
usual  expression  when  under  mental  strain.  He  had  been 
terribly  angry,  as  angry  as  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life, 
and  the  marks  of  passion  were  still  on  him.  Harriet  Swift's 
resolute  reiteration  that  with  Myra  honesty  was  the  only 
course,  and  that  she  had  taken  it  both  for  his  sake  and 
her  own,  had  driven  him  to  the  last  degree  of  exaspera- 
tion. Even  the  reassuring  fact  that  his  wife  had  left  the 
anonymous  letter  behind  her  had  not  quieted  him.  But 
Mrs.  Swift  had  remained  unmoved,  either  by  his  anger 
or  his  fear. 

"She  gave  me  her  word,  and  I  trust  her,"  she  re- 
peated. "If  I  had  lied  to  her  she  would  have  walked 
out,  and  with  that  letter  in  her  hand.  She  is  no  foolish 
girl;  she  is  a  clever  woman." 

St.  Claire's  eyes  came  back  to  Myra  after  wandering  the 
room.  "Packing — for  what?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  you,  Justin.  For  months  I  have 
wanted  to  go,  and  what  I  learned  this  afternoon  has  de- 
cided me.  ...  I  see  you  know." 

"Yes;  I  know  the  main  facts,"  St.  Claire  said.  "That 
you  received  an  anonymous  communication  and  that 
you  went  to  see  Mrs.  Swift.  I  want  to  explain  that  I 
came  in  on  the  train  with  your  father,  and  before  start- 
ing out  here  I  telephoned  to  Mrs.  Swift  about  important 
business  papers  connected  with  matters  in  Washington. 
She  handled  my  business  for  so  long  that  I  have  had  to 
consult  with  her.  She  came  from  Paris  for  that  purpose 
and  no  other,  and  when  I  have  seen  her  it  has  been  in  a 
business  way  only.  To-night  when  she  told  me  of  the 
afternoon's  occurrences  I  went  out  to  see  her — it  was  a 
matter  I  couldn't  discuss  over  the  telephone.  I  have 

157 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

been  absolutely  faithful  to  you  in  these  sixteen  months  of 
our  marriage,  Myra.  ...  I  simply  want  that  fact  made 
plain  to  you  before  you  explain  why  you  are  doing — 
this."  St.  Claire  indicated  the  disorder  of  the  room  by 
a  gesture. 

"I  am  not  accusing  you  of  unfaithfulness,  Justin — 
at  least  not  as  you  mean  it.  ...  You  will  not  understand 
me,  I  know,  when  I  say  that  what  decided  me  was  your 
unfaithfulness  to  the  woman  who  really  belongs  to  you 
—to  Mrs.  Swift." 

As  always,  her  viewpoint  surprised  St.  Claire,  but  with 
the  rigid  self-control  possible  to  him  in  a  crisis  he  kept 
himself  steady.  His  brilliant  gaze  showed  no  alteration. 
"  I  may  be  obtuse,  but  I  do  not  understand — in  the  least." 

"No,  and  I  wonder  if  you  ever  will,  either  you  or 
father  or  even  mother,"  Myra  said,  wearily.  "Let  us 
sit  down  if  we  must  talk.  I  am  so  very  tired." 

"You  look  it,"  St.  Claire  said,  his  voice  suddenly 
at  its  softest.  "I  would  have  done  almost  anything  to 
have  saved  you  this  shock.  You  feel  that  I  have  not 
been  open  with  you,  but  you  see,  dear,  I  was  reared 
among  men  who  guarded  the  women  they  marry  from 
things  that  hurt — the  follies  of  their  youth  or  a  mis- 
step such  as  mine.  You  feel  that  I  have  not  been  open 
before  the  world — but  what  man  is?  ...  In  saying  that 
I  do  not  mean  to  palliate  my  fault ;  though  what  I  did  is 
not  an  unusual  thing,  and  certainly  in  the  eyes  of  most 
men — and  women — there  was  much  to  excuse  me.  .  .  . 
When  I  married  you  I  did  what  any  gentleman  would 
do — put  the  whole  thing  away — severed  the  relation. 
Surely  you  are  woman  of  the  world  enough  to  know  that 
that  sort  of  entanglement  means  very  little  to  a  man. 
The  woman  to  whom  he  gives  his  name  is  the  woman  he 
respects  and  considers.  With  you  it  has  been  more  than 
that.  You  know  I  have  been  wildly  in  love  with  you. 
It  made  me  selfish — I  didn't  want  even  to  share  you  with 

158 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

a  child.  I  was  wrong  in  that,  of  course,  and  you  have 
never  forgiven  me.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Swift  shall  go  back  to  Paris. 
Can't  you  then  put  the  past,  my  mistakes  and  our  mis- 
understandings, out  of  your  mind,  and  let  us  begin  again? 
Have  a  child,  since  it  means  so  much  to  you.  I  want  you 
to  be  happy.  .  .  .  This  break  you  are  considering — you 
don't  know  what  it  means — " 

St.  Claire  stopped,  for  even  his  smooth  flow  of  words 
was  not  proof  against  Myra's  uncontrollable  shrinking. 
He  had  seated  himself  beside  her,  both  his  voice  and  his 
touch  a  caress.  He  spoke  with  lips  almost  against  her 
cheek.  Myra  put  up  her  hand  to  shield  it.  "It  is  so 
smothering  hot  here,"  she  said,  thickly.  "It  makes  me 
—ill." 

And  she  looked  as  if  about  to  faint.  St.  Claire  rose 
abruptly,  and  remained  standing,  his  face  hard.  He  did 
not  offer  to  open  a  window;  he  made  no  movement  of 
any  kind.  He  simply  watched  Myra  as  she  wiped  the 
moisture  from  her  brow  and  lip,  involuntary  gestures 
unconsciously  repeated. 

She  gained  control  of  herself  gradually.  "It  is  no  use 
— Justin.  .  .  .  Sincerity  and  its  opposite  cannot  walk  to- 
gether. I  offered  you  honesty,  and  you  tendered  me 
pretense  in  exchange  for  it.  It  was  that  killed  my  love. 
.  .  .  The  sort  of  man  you  have  described  yourself  to  be — 
the  gentleman  who  guards  his  name  at  the  sacrifice  of 
the  woman  who  has  been  his  mate,  who  was  good  enough 
for  his  kisses  and  his  service ;  the  man  who  classes  women 
as  sheep  or  goats,  according  as  the  marriage  service  has 
or  has  not  been  said  over  them;  the  man  who  calls  him- 
self a  gentleman,  and  his  mate  of  fifteen  years  an  'en- 
tanglement,' and  to  whom  his  wife  is  an  object  of  respect 
and  at  the  same  time  a  subject  for  deception — that  is 
the  kind  of  man  I  told  you  I  could  not  love.  .  .  .  You  took 
my  love  and  my  trust  and  played  with  it.  You  have 
played  upon  the  thing  in  me  that  was  given  me  for  good 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

purpose — that  every  woman  should  have  if  she  is  a  nor- 
mal woman.  The  only  appeal  I  ever  have  had  for  you 
is  of  the  senses.  For  my  intellect  you  have  a  sort  of  tol- 
erant contempt.  Your  father  and  your  grandfather  had 
little  use  for  a  woman's  brain  except  as  it  served  to  amuse 
them,  and  you  are  much  the  same.  I  begged  for  the  man 
of  to-day — the  man  who  needs  a  comrade.  You  know 
that  was  what  I  asked  for,  Justin." 

St.  Claire  was  silent. 

"I  have  burned  under  your  misconception  of  me.  You 
utterly  misconceive  me  if  you  think  that  I  am  half  as 
shocked  by  your  fifteen  years  with  Mrs.  Swift  as  I  am 
by  your  marriage  with  me.  It  is  the  best  thing  I  know 
of  you,  that  long  companionship  that  was  much  more 
of  a  marriage  in  intention  and  in  fulfilment  than  your 
connection  with  me  has  ever  been.  She  is  your  wife,  not  I. 
For  months  I  haven't  felt  that  I  was  your  wife — not  ac- 
cording to  my  conception.  And  I  believe  what  Mrs. 
Swift  maintains — that  the  best  there  is  in  you  is  still  at- 
tached to  her.  You  sent  for  her  because  you  needed  her 
as  you  have  always  needed  her;  she  has  simply  come 
back  to  her  rightful  place.  I  like  to  think  it  of  you,  for 
it  makes  you  seem  more  decent!"  Myra  threw  up  her 
hands,  an  impassioned  gesture  in  one  who  gesticulated 
little.  "Oh!  .  .  .  For  months  I've  longed  to  say  some  of 
these  things  to  you,  and  with  teeth  set  I  have  tried  to 
pursue  my  mother's  policy!"  She  sprang  up,  and  going 
to  the  window,  flung  it  open  to  the  night-glow  of  the  city. 
"To  be  free  of  it  all!"  she  breathed.  "Think  of  it!" 

She  leaned  far  out,  and  the  night  noises  of  the  city, 
that  dreamy  murmur,  the  sleep  whisperings  of  the  great 
giant  Activity,  came  softly  to  her  throbbing  ears.  Every 
sick  nerve  in  her  was  leaping.  The  period  of  lowered 
eyes,  the  gradual  assimilation  of  woman's  revolt,  the  sub- 
dued but  passionate  longing  for  free  action,  the  think- 
ing silence  of  months,  was  suddenly  broken,  and  the  words 

1 60 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

had  sprung  off  Myra's  facile  tongue  like  drops  of  cold 
water  flung  on  red-hot  iron.  Hot  and  quivering,  she  was 
a  passionately  embodied  "/  need!" 

St.  Claire  waited  in  perfect  silence  for  a  long  time, 
until  Myra  finally  turned  from  the  window  and  came  to 
the  table  on  which  were  her  letters.  He  watched  her  in 
his  unmoved  way.  She  had  taken  them  up  and  was  ab- 
sently making  a  pile  of  them.  She  had  grown  very 
pale  and  her  hands  were  shaking. 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  have  hurt  you,  Justin,"  she  said,  with 
the  air  of  withdrawal  usual  with  her.  "I  know  that  the 
round-about  and  the  secretive  are  natural  to  you.  But  I 
had  to  speak  plainly.  I  hope  I  may  never  have  to  do 
it  again." 

"You  have  made  it  clear  enough  that  I  have  not  met 
your  requirements,"  St.  Claire  said,  icily.  "Who  is  the 
man  who  has?" 

Myra  looked  at  him,  arrested,  wide-eyed.  "What — 
do  you  mean?" 

"It  is  the  first  question  the  world  asks  a  woman  who 
throws  over  her  husband  without  reason." 

She  flamed  scarlet.  "You  know  there  is  no  one!  To 
me  the  reasons  I  have  given  are  urgent  enough.  ...  As 
for  society — let  it  think  what  it  will." 

"Yours  is  a  heroic  attitude,  Myra,  but  impractical. 
Your  family  will  not  take  your  view.  .  .  .  However!  .  .  . 
Would  you  mind  telling  me  just  what  it  is  you  are  con- 
templating? You  say  you  are  about  to  leave  me?" 

Myra  drew  a  long  breath,  conquering  her  anger.  "I 
want  first  to  go  to  mother,  for  she  will  be  terribly  unhappy 
over  what  I  have  done.  I  don't  know  whether  I  can 
make  her  understand,  but  I  shall  try.  Then  I  want  to 
be  by  myself.  I  have  not  thought  farther  than  that." 

"And  what  of  me?"  he  asked,  dryly. 

"You  will  probably  live  as  you  did  before  you  met  me. 
Except  as  I  have  pushed  your  social  interests  you  have 

161 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

had  no  real  need  of  me.  You  have  secured  father's  back- 
ing, and  that  was  the  important  thing."  It  was  said 
without  a  trace  of  sarcasm,  as  simply  stating  a  fact  long 
known  to  her. 

St.  Claire  flushed  dully  under  her  frankness,  the  first 
change  in  expression  he  had  shown,  though  in  the  last 
few  moments  Myra  had  dealt  blow  after  blow  upon  his 
Old  World  armor.  To  her  there  appeared  to  be  nothing 
appalling  in  the  departure  from  his  roof.  It  was  true 
that  she  looked  very  ill,  as  if  nearing  a  nervous  collapse, 
her  cheeks  aflame  one  moment  and  pale  the  next.  But 
she  was  not  hysterical.  There  was  a  certain  intelligent, 
determined  resistance  about  her  that  frightened  him, 
even  while  it  aroused  his  intensest  antagonism.  In 
spite  of  Mrs.  Swift's  warning  that  Myra  was  a  woman 
he  would  not  be  able  to  coerce,  he  had  come  braced  merely 
for  a  dreaded  scene  with  a  hysterical  woman,  from  which 
he  would  emerge  conqueror.  But  the  situation  as  it  had 
developed  was  fraught  with  the  gravest  danger.  He  must 
keep  the  peace  at  any  cost — keep  his  wife  beneath  his 
roof.  If  he  had  not  felt  certain  that  Milenberg  would 
second  his  efforts,  St.  Claire  would  have  been  panic- 
stricken. 

"You  say  you  want  to  be  by  yourself.  Is  it  a  legal 
separation  you  are  contemplating?"  he  inquired. 

Myra  came  around  the  table  to  him,  as  if  by  corning 
nearer  she  might  make  her  plea  more  impressive.  "It 
is  the  only  sensible  and  right  thing  for  us,  Justin.  I 
know  you  don't  believe  in  divorce,  but  just  consider! 
There  is  no  power  can  ever  make  you  and  me  one.  And 
I  refuse  to  play  the  part  my  mother  has  played.  There 
is  no  law  can  keep  me  in  your  house  if  I  will  not  to  stay. 
.  .  .  But,  Justin,  I  do  not  want  to  fight  you.  I  don't 
want  what  was  in  that  letter  ever  to  come  out.  It  would 
hurt  her,  and  it  would  hurt  her  daughter  still  more — 
the  one  who  is  most  innocent.  No  matter  how  much 

162 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

father  may  question  me,  I  shall  not  tell  him  what  was  in 
that  letter.  I  don't  want  to  make  father  her  enemy.  .  .  . 
You  know  the  law,  and  I  don't ;  but  I  thought,  if  I  leave 
you  without  apparently  much  reason,  and  refuse  to  come 
back  to  you,  you  would  have  good  grounds.  ...  I  don't 
need  to  tell  you  what  I  think  would  be  right  for  you  to 
do  if  you  were  free,  for  that  is  your  affair,  but  I  should 
be  glad  if  you  did  it,  Justin — indeed  I  should !  There  is 
so  much  that  is  fine  in  Mrs.  Swift." 

"You  take  a  remarkable  view  of  marriage,"  St.  Claire 
said,  coldly.  "The  legal  contract  into  which  you  en- 
tered with  me  appears  to  mean  nothing  to  you.  But  it 
does  to  me,  it  means  a  great  deal — the  breaking-up  of 
my  home,  scandal,  jeopardizing  my  business.  .  .  .  And  I 
repeat  I  have  given  you  no  grounds.  I  have  been  faith- 
ful to  you;  you  cannot  offer  a  particle  of  proof  to  the 
contrary.  I  have  never  been  unkind  to  you,  even.  I  am 
not  a  drunkard,  or  even  rough  in  my  language.  You 
haven't  a  thing  to  go  on  except  a  fault  in  conduct  that 
was  before  your  time,  and  even  for  that  you  can  produce 
no  proof.  ...  I  have  promised  you  that  Mrs.  Swift  shall 
go  back  to  Paris.  You  can  put  her  out  of  your  mind.  I 
have  done  what  is  right — I  have  provided  for  them.  .  .  . 
If  you  will  do  now  what  is  kind  and  womanly  you  will 
sleep  over  your  decision  and  change  your  mind — be  a 
forgiving  wife  to  me." 

Myra  turned  away.  The  futility  of  it!  And  the  hurt 
of  it!  She  had  the  feeling  of  one  entombed  and  starv- 
ing, seeking  hurriedly,  and  with  bare  hands,  to  make  an 
opening  through  a  wall  of  stone.  The  quiver  of  her  chin, 
and  then  the  tightening  of  her  lips  as  she  gathered  up 
her  letters,  expressed  her  decision. 

St.  Claire  squared  his  shoulders  to  it,  losing  some  of 
his  self-control.  "I  warn  you  that  I  shall  never  give  my 
consent!  It's  true  enough  that  I  can't  keep  you  if  you 
will  go,  but  when  a  woman  takes  the  position  you  do,  it's 

163 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

because  there  is  some  other  man  hovering  in  the  back- 
ground! You  shall  not  have  him  legally.  I'll  fight  you 
through  every  court  in  the  country  first!  .  .  .  And  if  I 
know  anything  of  your  father's  mind  on  such  matters,  he 
will  stand  by  me.  Who  is  going  to  furnish  you  with  an 
income  when  you  leave  me?  Not  your  father!  Some 
other  man?"  Then  taking  counsel  of  his  caution,  St. 
Claire  caught  himself  up  and  spoke  more  collectedly. 
"  If  you  don't  want  me  I'll  not  force  myself  on  you,  Myra, 
but  outwardly  let  us  go  on  as  we  are.  You  have  made 
an  enviable  social  position  for  yourself;  go  on  gracing  it. 
It  will  be  easy  enough  for  us  to  live  separately  under 
the  same  roof.  I'll  put  no  restrictions  on  you." 

Myra  had  gathered  up  her  letters,  and  stood  claspirg 
them,  gazing  at  her  husband  with  wide  eyes  and  slightly 
parted  lips.  When  he  had  concluded  she  turned  without 
answer  to  her  bedroom  door. 

St.  Claire  came  after  her  and  faced  her.  "Myra,  will 
you  consent  to  that?"  he  asked.  "I'll  give  you  every 
freedom.  We  need  neither  of  us  question  the  other. 
You  have  sense  enough  to  keep  clear  of  scandal." 

"No!"  Myra  said,  deep  and  low.  "That  is  the  ugly 
thing  that  hides  behind  marriage." 

St.  Claire  lost  all  control.  "Who  is  the  man?"  he  de- 
manded, violently.  "Jann-iss?  ...  If  you  make  a  legal 
quarrel  of  this  I  shall  name  him!" 

Myra  looked  at  him  steadfastly.  Then  her  eyes 
dropped  to  the  hand  that  gripped  her  wrist,  and  her  chin 
quivered.  "And — you  have  been — my  husband?"  she 
said. 

Then  with  an  effort  that  took  force  she  shook  herself 
free,  and,  going  into  her  room,  shut  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XV 

OHIVERING  before  a  blazing  fire  that  with  the 
O  bright  sun  of  a  spring  morning  made  the  heat  of 
the  room  oppressive,  Myra  looked  haggardly  at  the 
future. 

The  night  had  been  a  horror.  Myra  had  not  slept,  a 
common  enough  occurrence  of  late,  and  not  disabling  in 
itself;  she  had  always  been  able  to  pull  herself  together 
in  the  morning  and  go  on;  but  the  complete  weakness 
and  the  agonizing  headache  that  made  her  helpless  was 
a  new  thing.  It  had  come  on  in  the  second  hour  after 
midnight,  a  knife-thrust  passing  from  her  left  eye  to  the 
back  of  her  head.  The  base  of  her  brain  burned  as  if 
seared  with  hot  irons.  Her  feet  were  as  cold  as  damp 
stones,  and  her  back  refused  to  hold  her  upright.  She 
was  blinded,  nauseated  by  pain.  Even  the  touch  of 
clothing  against  her  skin  hurt.  And  with  the  agony  had 
come  a  depression  so  utter  that  thought  was  paralyzed. 

The  morning  had  brought  a  slight  lessening  of  pain, 
and  with  the  first  light  Myra  had  wrapped  a  blanket 
about  her  and  had  crept  into  her  study  and  to  the  couch. 
The  bell  would  have  brought  her  maid  to  her,  and  the 
telephone  a  physician;  but  that  meant  confessing  illness, 
and  the  blind  desire  to  be  gone  dominated  even  such 
pain  as  she  was  enduring.  Daylight  brought  her  a  little 
courage;  she  would  have  to  talk  to  her  father.  If  only 
she  could  get  warm,  perhaps  the  pain  would  pass. 

Myra's  maid  was  frightened  by  her  appearance.  "I 
am  cold,"  was  all  Myra  would  say.  "Bring  me  some- 

165 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

thing  hot  for  my  feet  and  build  up  the  fire."  She  would 
not  confess  that  to  raise  her  head  from  the  pillow  was 
torture. 

The  sun  was  barely  up  when  her  father  sent  word  that 
he  wanted  to  see  her.  His  brows  lifted  when  he  came  in. 
"So  you  want  to  go  to  your  mother,  do  you?  You  look 
a  fit  subject  to  journey  anywhere,  I  must  say!"  He 
squared  himself  before  her,  feet  planted  well  apart,  hands 
in  his  pockets.  "What's  all  this  nonsense  about  separat- 
ing from  him  that  Justin's  been  telling  me?  Have  you 
taken  leave  of  your  senses  by  any  chance?" 

"As  soon  as  I  am  able  I  am  going,"  Myra  replied. 

"And  in  the  name  of  all  unreason,  why?"  Milenberg 
demanded.  "If  ever  a  girl  married  well,  you  have. 
What  more  do  you  want  than  you  have?  .  .  .  It's  struck 
me  out  of  a  clear  sky.  I  never  dreamed  that  you  were 
anything  but  satisfied.  What's  wrong,  anyway?" 

Before  pain  had  paralyzed  her  Myra  had  decided  what 
must  be  her  attitude  toward  her  father.  Arguments  and 
pleading  were  alike  useless  with  him.  Some  of  her  silly 
notions.  A  little  tempest  in  a  teapot.  He  would  make 
short  work  of  such  nonsense.  If  she  did  not  show  him  a 
little  of  his  invincible  front  she  would  be  thrust  aside. 

Her  answer  was  curt.  "I  am  not  happy  with  Justin. 
He  offends  me.  We  are  not  suited  to  each  other,  and  I 
detest  the  way  in  which  we  live.  ...  I  will  not  go  on 
with  it."  Myra  had  set  her  teeth  against  pain,  and  had 
managed  to  lift  herself  up  a  little. 

"Um!"  Milenberg  said.  "Any  other  woman  mixed  up 
in  it?  Justin's  perfectly  straight,  of  course;  he's  devoted 
to  you;  but  he's  the  kind  women  make  fools  of  them- 
selves over.  He  said  something  about  an  anonymous 
letter,  some  blackmailing  scheme,  of  course,  based  on 
some  connection  he  had  before  he  knew  you.  As 
he  explained  it  to  me  it  was  all  right  enough.  You 
didn't  expect  to  marry  a  saint,  did  you?" 

166 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"I  have  no  complaint  to  make  of  any  woman,"  Myra 
returned. 

"You  haven't?"  her  father  said,  with  a  note  of  relief 
that  he  could  not  altogether  hide. 

Milenberg  trusted  no  man,  and  his  son-in-law  as  little 
as  any.  For  one  thing,  he  had  not  liked  the  look  or  the 
air  of  that  black-and-white  woman,  St.  Claire's  sister-in- 
law.  He  had  feared  that  she  might  be  mixed  up  in  it. 
St.  Claire's  explanation  had  been  given  with  all  appar- 
ent openness — a  discarded  mistress  who  was  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  provision  he  had  made  for  her;  but 
Milenberg  had  always  considered  Justin  St.  Claire 
"smooth" — "smooth"  enough  to  manage  his  somewhat 
difficult  daughter,  he  had  thought.  He  had  his  doubts, 
which,  however,  he  had  no  intention  of  revealing  to  Myra, 
so  her  declaration  was  a  relief.  He  veered  promptly  to 
the  conclusion  that  some  of  her  impractical  notions  on 
love  and  marriage  had  been  offended.  He  remembered 
very  well  that  she  had  very  nearly  rejected  St.  Claire 
because  of  them.  This  was  probably  another  bit  of  non- 
sense of  the  same  kind  that  would  require  effective  hand- 
ling. 

At  the  same  time  Milenberg  was  feeling  all  the  im- 
patience and  annoyance  of  the  financially  absorbed  man 
who  is  forced  to  turn  his  attention  to  domestic  com- 
plications. Things  were  warming  up  for  the  next  presi- 
dential campaign,  and  with  St.  Claire's  aid  he  was  trying 
to  hustle  a  bill  through  the  legislature  before  conditions 
became  inimical.  This  was  no  time  to  have  trouble 
with  his  son-in-law. 

Milenberg  was  thoroughly  irritated,  though  much  too 
shrewd  to  show  it,  for  certainly  Myra  looked  wretchedly  ill 
— ghastly.  Her  trouble  was  evidently  a  vital  enough 
matter  to  her.  Women  were  such  fools  over  their 
grievances ! 

"Well,  things  should  be  easily  enough  straightened  out 

167 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

between  you,  then,  Myra.  As  I  said,  Justin  is  devoted 
to  you,  but  he's  been  taken  up  with  business,  and  you've 
been  doing  society  pretty  hard — mighty  successfully, 
too;  I've  been  proud  of  you;  but  a  man's  apt  to  be 
neglectful  under  such  circumstances,  and  you're  not  the 
kind  should  be  neglected.  It's  simply  gotten  on  your 
nerves.  We'll  send  you  to  Hot  Springs — or  wherever 
the  doctor  advises — and  when  you're  fit  for  it  Justin  can 
take  you  abroad  for  a  holiday  and  a  honeymoon.  Be- 
lieve me,  he's  ready  enough  for  it.  ...  How  does  that 
strike  you,  eh?  ...  We'll  have  the  doctor,  though,  first 
thing,"  he  added,  briskly. 

The  familiar  panacea!  A  pat  on  the  back !  What  was 
the  use  of  talking  at  a  viewpoint  such  as  his?  Pain  made 
Myra's  answer  sharp. 

"I'm  not  a  baby,  father!  .  .  .  Please  understand:  I 
do  not  love  Justin,  because  I  do  not  respect  him.  I  will 
not  live  with  a  man  I  do  not  respect.  Justin  is  a  monu- 
mental pretense,  and  you  know  it — you  knew  it  when  you 
married  me  to  him.  ...  I  am  not  considering  leaving  Jus- 
tin; I  have  left  him.  I  shall  never  come  back  to  him." 
Myra's  gesture  was  comprehensive.  "I  am  done  with 
all  this."  With  hand  pressed  to  the  side  of  her  head, 
where  now  there  seemed  to  be  an  auger  boring  its  way 
through  her  brain,  Myra  sat  up  and  faced  her  father. 

Milenberg  knew  determination  when  he  saw  it.  He 
took  his  hands  from  his  pockets,  letting  them  hang  at  his 
sides,  his  position  when  facing  a  genuine  difficulty.  His 
eyes  had  clouded  slightly. 

"You  can't  leave  your  husband  without  a  sensible 
reason,"  he  said,  roughly.  "I  won't  have  it." 

"I  have  given  you  my  reason — a  sufficient  one  for  me. 
I  didn't  expect  you  to  understand  me.  ...  I  probably 
could  not  make  a  court  see  my  reasons,  so  I  have  no  in- 
tention of  trying.  If  I  leave  him  it  will  be  Justin  who 
will  have  legal  grounds,  and  I  hope  he  will  free  himself 

168 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

of  me.  .  .  .  From  this  time  on  I  want  to  be  mistress  of  my 
own  bed  and  board.  In  spite  of  my  good  intentions  I 
have  made  a  mistake,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  I  must 
abide  by  it.  To  continue  as  I  have  been  would  be  an 
immorality — I  have  thought  so  for  a  long  time,  and  yes- 
terday I  realized  fully." 

Milenberg  eyed  his  daughter.  Though  he  had  no 
patience  with  her  "advanced  notions,"  he  had  a  certain 
respect  for  her  independence.  He  had  always  granted 
that  she  had  more  intelligence  than  most  girls;  almost  as 
much  as  her  younger  sister  Irma,  who  was  more  nearly 
his  own  counterpart.  But  Irma  took  a  sensible  view  of 
life.  She  was  no  revolutionary.  She  would  utilize  con- 
ditions as  they  existed,  and  always  to  her  own  advantage. 
Myra  was  given  to  idealistic  nonsense,  and  just  now  she 
was  certainly  headed  toward  destruction. 

Milenberg  had  no  intention  of  arguing  at  any  length 
with  his  daughter;  he  rarely  took  the  trouble  to  combat 
a  conviction,  for  force  was  so  much  more  effective;  but 
there  was  a  warning  he  might  as  well  give  before  he  took 
her  in  hand. 

"Even  if  you  have  made  a  mistake,  better  abide  by  it," 
he  said,  his  voice  at  its  driest.  "You  don't  know  what 
you're  facing.  To  talk  about  it  is  one  thing;  for  a  woman 
to  walk  out  into  the  world  alone  is  another.  .  .  .  Better 
do  what  the  majority  of  women  do  whose  husbands  are 
distasteful  to  them,  and  who  have  it  in  them  to  be  straight. 
Drop  the  emotional  side,  get  over  it,  and  go  on.  Look 
at  it  this  way :  there  are  few  women  as  well  housed  as  you 
are,  and  that's  the  important  thing  in  the  long  run.  The 
emotional  side  generally  wears  off  with  you  women  in 
time  —  it  probably  will  with  you  —  and  then  a  home 
and  social  position  and  all  that  goes  with  it  means  a  lot." 
Her  father's  voice  had  grown  so  dry  it  was  gritty.  ' '  There's 
one  thing  you  realize,  I  hope:  our  family  can't  survive 
much  scandal.  The  past  is  raked  up  against  me  still, 

169 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

and  now  I've  all  I  can  do  keeping  Eustace  out  of  the 
papers.  I  won't  stand  for  any  nonsense  on  your  part, 
Myra.  .  .  .  For  the  sake  of  every  one — all  around — let 
things,  outwardly  at  least,  appear  to  be  just  as  they  have 
been." 

"The  part  mother  has  played.  .  .  «  No;  I  decline.  .  .  . 
You  see,  father  " — and  Myra's  voice, was  as  dry  as  Milen- 
berg's — "I  have  lived  in  a  family  run  on  that  basis." 

They  were  decidedly  alike  in  some  ways,  father  and 
daughter.  Even  their  features  showed  likeness  at  that 
moment.  Antagonism  brought  out  the  same  capacity  to 
fight  to  the  finish.  Myra  had  a  full  share  of  her  father's 
determined  individuality,  the  same  urge  to  self-expression. 
One  was  in  revolt,  and  groping  for  an  ideal,  and  the 
other  in  quest  of  power,  rulership  over  men.  They  eyed 
each  other  steadily,  though  with  Myra  it  was  through 
eyes  that  had  begun  to  film. 

"And  not  possessing  your  mother's  good  sense,  what 
is  it  you  are  proposing  to  do?"  Milenberg  inquired,  satir- 
ically. 

"I  want  a  chance  to  make  a  different  life  for  myself 
— one  that  is  suited  to  me.  I  want  the  same  chance  a 
man  has  for  free  choice  and  action.  .  .  .  Why  should  a 
woman  be  compelled  to  live  half  a  life  simply  because 
she  is  a  woman;  because  she  must  be  'well  housed '- 
She  lost  her  voice,  for  speech  as  well  as  eyesight  was  fail- 
ing her. 

"And  there  is  no  man  promising  you  your  'chance'?" 
Milenberg  asked,  in  the  same  tone. 

Myra  only  looked  at  him.  For  a  moment  her  eyes 
had  cleared  and  she  saw  her  father's  keen  face  distinctly. 

"Well,  I  didn't  agree  with  Justin,"  Milenberg  con- 
ceded. "You've  got  plenty  of  temperament,  but  you're 
not  the  kind  to  go  on  the  loose.  Still,  you  may  as  well 
realize  now  that  that's  the  first  suspicion  you'll  have  to 
face.  There  are  other  difficulties.  For  instance,"  and  with 

170 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

the  air  of  the  man  who  unsheathes  the  invincible  argu- 
ment, Milenberg  pointed  to  Myra's  lace-covered  negligee. 
"That  little  trifle  cost  about  a  hundred  dollars,"  he  said, 
cuttingly.  "Who's  going  to  supply  you  with  the  like? 
.  .  .  Not  I,  I  assure  you.  There'll  be  not  a  penny  from 
me,  remember." 

"Other  women  work.  I  can  work,"  Myra  said.  Her 
father's  erect  figure  had  begun  to  blur  and  recede.  Like 
the  pain  in  her  head,  it  was  fading  into  a  thing  hazily 
sensed. 

Milenberg  laughed  shortly.  "You  work!  You  look 
like  work.  You  look  more  like  taking  to  your  bed  with 
an  illness — and  under  your  husband's  roof  at  that!  I've 
only  a  last  word  to  say,  but  you  remember  it.  I  won't 
have  any  such  patience  with  you  as  I've  had  with  Eustace. 
A  boy  is  expected  to  sow  his  wild  oats,  but  I've  about 
reached  the  end  of  my  patience  with  him!  .  .  .  Good 
Lord!  What  possesses  one's  children  these  days,  anyway ! 
You  all  want  to  go  your  own  ways.  The  more  money  a 
man  makes  for  his  children  the  more  trouble  they  are  to 
him!"  He  ended  in  utter  exasperation  that  was  not  with- 
out its  note  of  weakness.  •  Myra's  marriage  was  one  of 
the  greatest  satisfactions  he  had  ever  known.  His  son 
had  failed  him,  but  she  had  in  some  measure  satisfied  his 
ambitions.  He  was  bitterly  disappointed,  and  hotly 
irritated,  though  he  had  tried  to  conceal  it. 

It  was  the  only  time  in  her  life  that  Myra  had  heard 
her  father  speak  in  this  way,  but  the  grievance  of  her 
childhood  that  had  grown  up  with  her  was  hot  in  her. 
Though  a  fog  was  wrapping  itself  about  her,  pressing  her 
into  the  pillows,  a  half -articulate  retort  was  still  possible. 

"What  did  you  expect  of  children  reared  in  a  family 
like  ours?  We  had  eyes  to  see,  and  brains  enough  to 
draw  conclusions.  Eustace  drew  one  set  of  conclusions, 
I  another.  .  .  .  We  will  go  our  own  ways.  .  .  .  You  can't 
stop  us.  ...  To-morrow — as  soon  as  ...  I  am — able  .  .  . 

12  171 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

I  am  going — "  Myra's  voice  had  trailed  into  nothing. 
To  keep  the  encroaching  fog  from  her  face  she  had,  with 
her  last  effort,  turned  it  to  the  pillow. 

Milenberg  thought  that  she  was  weeping,  and  that  was 
the  best  thing  she  could  do.  When  a  woman  broke  into 
weeping  peace  was  in  sight.  He  knew  her  opinion  of 
him,  and  it  did  not  anger  him  overly  much.  Whose 
business  was  it  how  he  made  his  money,  or  how  he  lived  ? 
It  was  certainly  not  the  affair  of  those  whom  it  kept 
afloat.  Where  would  any  of  them  be  without  his  money  ? 

' '  Going  nowhere, ' '  he  said ,  shortly.  ' '  You're  ill — nerves 
gone  to  pieces.  What  you  want  is  a  doctor  and  your 
mother.  I'll  telegraph  her.  .  .  .  You  let  your  maid  get 
you  to  bed,  and  be  mighty  glad  it's  a  soft  one,"  he  added, 
more  kindly.  "It's  certainly  all  you're  fit  for." 

It  was  his  admonition  delivered  from  the  door,  the  last 
impression  on  Myra's  fading  consciousness. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  was  a  very  ill  child  Mrs.  Milenberg  was  trying  to 
nurse  back  to  life. 

They  had  brought  Myra  to  New  Rome  in  the  same 
car  that  had  taken  her  a  bride  from  her  father's  house, 
its  elegance  serving  now  as  a  temporary  hospital  ruled 
over  by  one  of  the  best  nerve  specialists  in  the  country. 
He  was  a  small  gray  man,  unalterably  Germanic,  and 
testy  to  the  last  degree,  save  to  his  nerve-sick  patients. 
He  had  flared  at  Milenberg  when  the  millionaire  declared 
in  his  usual  curt  way  that  there  was  no  need  to  move 
his  daughter  from  Woodmansie  Place.  St.  Claire  had 
little  to  say  to  any  one.  He  wore  the  look  of  a  man 
stricken  by  trouble.  He  left  matters  to  Milenberg. 

"Who  has  charge  of  this  case,  then — you  or  I?"  the 
doctor  had  demanded  of  Milenberg,  his  eyes  agleam 
behind  gold  spectacles. 

"You,  of  course." 

"Your  daughter  goes,  then,  where  she  wishes  to  go! 
What  is  it  you  know  about  nerves — you!  In  nervous 
prostration  the  first  thing  is  to  soothe — the  mind  as  well 
as  the  body;  and  this  big  house,  your  daughter  says  it 
sits  on  her  head.  Who  can  become  well  with  a  house 
sitting  upon  her  head?  I  have  here  a  bad  case.  I  will 
treat  it  as  I  think  best !' '  And  he  proceeded  to  relieve  him- 
self still  further  in  German. 

The  doctor's  assistant,  a  tall  red-haired  nurse  with 
deft  fingers  and  tireless  endurance,  interpreted  his  remarks 
in  somewhat  more  polite  English.  "Your  daughter  is 

J73 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

very  ill,"  she  said,  with  her  kindest  glance  for  Mrs.  Milen- 
berg's  trembling  anxiety.  "It  is  a  serious  collapse  due  to 
prolonged  strain.  Her  great  desire  seems  to  be  to  leave 
this  house,  perhaps  because  the  care  of  it  has  worn  on 
her,  and  it  would  be  wrong  not  to  humor  her.  She  has 
asked  to  go  to  New  Rome;  the  doctor  thinks  she  should 

go." 

"You  think  she  is  seriously  ill,  then?"  Milenberg  had 
asked,  somewhat  subdued  by  the  nurse's  gravity. 

"There  is  nothing  more  serious  than  a  nervous  collapse. 
Recovery  is  always  a  slow  matter,  even  when  it's  a  case  of 
a  good  constitution.  One  thing  is  imperative — relief  from 
friction  or  anxiety." 

So  they  brought  Myra  to  New  Rome,  to  the  room 
that  had  been  hers  as  a  girl.  "Take  me  anywhere — only 
away  from  here,"  Myra  had  begged  of  her  mother  as  she 
had  of  the  doctor.  "Take  me  to  New  Rome,  mother — 
that  will  be  the  least  trouble.  Take  me  away  so  I  can 
get  well  .  .  .  this  great  house  is  pressing  on  my  head — ' 
And  she  had  wandered  off  into  incoherence,  a  reiteration 
of  her  request,  of  her  determination  to  leave  her  hus- 
band. Then  a  noise  in  the  next  room  had  galvanized 
her.  "I  won't  see  Justin!"  she  cried,  wildly.  "Mother, 
don't  let  him  come!" 

At  Woodmansie  Place  she  had  made  no  progress,  and 
even  after  the  change  to  New  Rome  it  was  two  months 
before  she  could  leave  her  room.  She  was  so  utterly 
without  strength  for  the  first  month,  too  weak  and  suf- 
fering to  lift  her  head.  Sleep  seemed  to  have  permanently 
forsaken  her;  she  slept  only  when  drugged. 

It  was,  as  the  doctor  had  warned,  a  slow,  tedious  re- 
covery, fraught  with  set-backs.  Myra  had  quieted  into 
what  appeared  to  be  indifference  after  they  brought  her 
to  New  Rome.  Even  when  she  could  be  carried  down  to 
an  invalid-chair  on  the  terraces  she  appeared  listless 
because  so  silent.  The  only  occasion  when  she  showed 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

excitement  was  when  her  mother  timidly  told  her  that 
St.  Claire  was  in  New  Rome  and  wished  to  see  her. 
Myra  refused  in  a  panic-struck  way. 

"  I  cannot  see  him!"  she  said,  flushing  and  trembling. 
"If  he  tries  to  see  me  it  will  make  me  ill  again.  I  don't 
want  him  to  write,  even — I  will  not  read  his  letters." 

As  a  result  of  her  mother's  well-meant  efforts  Myra 
suffered  a  relapse  that  was  a  warning.  Thereafter, 
until  she  was  able  to  walk,  not  even  her  father  saw  her, 
and  St.  Claire's  name  was  never  mentioned. 

Nevertheless,  with  the  acuteness  of  the  hypersensitive, 
Myra  knew  that  there  was  a  struggle  on  between  herself 
and  her  family.  No  one,  not  even  her  mother,  suspected 
the  will  Myra  was  bringing  to  bear  upon  her  sick  nerves; 
how  determinedly  she  was  collecting  strength  for  the  con- 
test which  she  foresaw  was  inevitable.  She  learned  in 
time  that  St.  Claire  had  been  in  New  Rome  more  than 
once,  so  far  as  the  public  knew  an  anxious  husband 
watching  over  his  wife.  He  had  taken  every  precaution 
against  public  suspicion  of  the  break  between  them. 
Myra  understood  and  kept  to  herself  her  thoughts,  her  de- 
cisions, and  her  consuming  eagerness  to  be  well. 

She  crept  down  daily  to  the  arbor  on  the  lower  terrace, 
and  with  teeth  set  against  almost  overpowering  weakness 
she  refused  assistance  in  her  climb  back  to  the  house. 
Her  mother's  timid  efforts  to  discuss  her  difficulties  she 
resolutely  avoided,  at  the  same  time  clinging  to  her  as 
she  always  had  when  in  trouble,  her  heart  filled  with  a 
passionate  appreciation  of  her  mother's  blind  expending 
of  herself  on  her  children.  Myra's  throat  often  ached 
and  her  eyes  smarted  with  unshed  tears  when  she  looked 
at  her  mother's  rounded  shoulders  and  anxious  face. 

But  it  was  useless  to  discuss  a  matter  upon  which  agree- 
ment was  not  possible.  They  both  alike  loved  home  and 
children;  in  their  heart  of  hearts  it  was  the  race  need 
that  animated  them;  it  was  simply  their  viewpoint  that 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

differed.  To  Myra  it  seemed  a  difference  that  could  not 
be  bridged.  The  leveling  effect  of  greater  experience 
would  have  made  it  possible  for  Myra  to  talk  with  her 
mother,  but  she  was  hot  with  revolt  against  marriage  as 
she  had  known  it.  She  was  in  no  mood  for  calm  discus- 
sion. How  much  her  father  had  told  her  mother  Myra 
did  not  know,  but  to  rehearse  the  painful  story  and  re- 
assert her  determination  was  beyond  her.  Her  younger 
sisters  were  in  Europe  for  the  summer,  so  she  escaped 
questioning,  and  New  Rome  callers  were  too  much  over- 
awed by  her  to  venture  even  formal  questions.  When 
they  came  calling  upon  her  mother  Myra  sat  by,  endeav- 
oring to  interest  herself  in  their  talk,  for  she  was  trying 
desperately  hard  to  put  away  the  painful,  to  become  whole 
again,  normal,  and  full  of  clean  energy  as  in  her  girlhood. 
Her  physical  incapacity  worried  her. 

It  was  one  of  Mrs.  Milenberg's  callers  who  gave  Myra 
her  first  real  interest  in  those  about  her.  Mr.  Baker's 
death  had  brought  Caroline  Alyth  to  New  Rome  for  the 
summer.  She  was  adjusting  her  father's  affairs  and 
taking  possession  of  her  inheritance,  and  as  she  was  proud 
of  her  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Milenberg,  she  called  at 
the  villa.  When  Mrs.  Milenberg  discovered  that  Myra 
took  an  interest  in  Mrs.  Alyth,  she  encouraged  her  visitor 
to  return  and  bring  her  children  with  her.  It  was  true 
that  Myra  had  little  to  say  during  these  visits;  as  an  in- 
valid she  was  excused  conversation,  but  with  Dick  shar- 
ing her  chair,  and  Jack  interestedly  questioning  the  value 
of  objects  about  him,  Myra  studied  Alyth's  wife. 

What  a  woman  to  be  bound  to  for  a  lifetime!  She  was 
one  of  those  who  followed  ancient  precepts  upon  which 
she  had  grafted  what  was  worst  in  the  modern  spirit: 
always  nervously  anxious,  restlessly  pushing,  narrowly 
commercial,  shrewdly  spoken,  and  self-opinionated.  She 
had  impressed  herself  ineradicably  upon  her  eldest  child; 
though  of  sturdier  mentality,  his  trend  was  the  same  as 

176 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

hers.  Of  Dick  she  had  made  a  nervous,  irascible  boy. 
It  was  only  too  apparent  that  she  rubbed  his  spirit  raw, 
for  he  was  out  of  the  ordinary.  He  was  like  his  father, 
Myra  thought;  he  had  Alyth's  vivid  blue  eyes  softened 
by  dark  lashes,  a  thin,  unsmiling  child,  always  busied 
over  something.  He  also  had  his  father's  polite  though 
slightly  satirical  manner,  a  cool  observation  of  those 
about  him.  He  certainly  had  quick  appreciation  of  the 
beautiful.  He  told  Myra  almost  in  the  words  of  a  grown 
man  that  he  liked  the  view  from  the  arbor.  He  also  told 
her  with  his  father's  vivid  glance  that  her  hands  were 
"pretty." 

On  that  occasion  they  were  ransacking  Myra's  work- 
basket  for  empty  spools,  tape,  bobbins,  a  collection  of  odds 
and  ends  for  which  Dick  evidently  had  a  definite  use. 
Then,  with  the  addition  of  a  hair-pin,  some  scraps  of  tin, 
and  some  sticks,  he  constructed  a  device  for  lifting  pebbles 
from  the  park.  He  worked  deftly,  and  with  surprising 
decision.  In  his  absorption  he  forgot,  and  brought  forth 
from  his  pocket  a  penknife,  which  was  instantly  pounced 
upon  by  his  mother  and  forcibly  taken  away  from  him. 
He  fought  frantically  for  his  treasure,  pleading  that  it 
was  a  gift  from  his  father,  and  the  scene  that  followed  was 
not  pleasant. 

"Father  said  most  boys  would  cut  themselves,  but  I 
wouldn't,"  he  contended.  "He  said  I  had  clever  fingers." 

"Your  father  has  some  strange  ideas,"  Caroline  re- 
turned, with  scorn.  "What  does  he  know  about  your 
fingers?  He's  at  the  other  end  of  the  earth  most  of  the 
time.  It's  me  has  to  keep  them  clean,  I  know."  She 
took  him  off  with  the  threat  that  she  would  never  bring 
him  again,  that  she  was  ashamed  of  him. 

Mrs.  Milenberg  had  flushed  unhappily  over  the  scene. 
"I  am  afraid  all  that  noise  has  hurt  you,"  she  said,  anx- 
iously, to  Myra.  "Mrs.  Alyth  was  right,  though — his 
father  shouldn't  have  given  that  little  boy  a  knife," 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

Myra  also  was  flushed.  "His  father  has  discernment 
enough  to  recognize  that  his  boy  has  the  fingers  of  a  genius, 
the  thing  his  mother  is  too  dense  to  see,"  she  answered, 
with  more  of  her  old  animation  than  she  had  shown  since 
her  illness.  "What  scope  would  that  woman  allow  to 
individuality?  None.  I  am  glad  I  know  Mrs..  Alyth  as 
well  as  I  do  now."  Caroline  Alyth  seen  with  her  chil- 
dren had  given  Myra  a  warmly  sympathetic  understand- 
ing of  Alyth's  revolt,  though  to  the  average  person  he 
would  appear  to  have  as  intangible  a  grievance  as  her  own. 

It  made  her  very  kindly  to  Alyth  when  one  evening 
he  appeared  at  the  villa.  He  had  just  returned  from  a 
two  months'  stay  in  South  America.  Lean,  bronzed, 
and  keen-eyed,  he  lounged  in  a  garden-chair  while  he 
told  Myra  of  his  South  American  experiences. 

"It  is  the  coming  continent,"  he  said.  "Its  possibil- 
ities have  not  even  been  touched;  its  mineral  deposits 
have  been  no  more  than  scratched  as  yet.  They  are 
still  guarded  by  the  gnomes."  Then  in  his  faintly 
satirical  way,  and  yet  with  a  big  sympathy  for  his 
own  kind,  he  characterized  the  great  mining  experts  of 
the  world  whom  he  knew.  With  some  of  them  he  had 
camped.  He  related  their  oddities  with  a  humorous 
thrust  at  himself  as  well.  "One  half  of  us  is  pure 
savage — we  love  the  feel  of  Mother  Earth.  Last  spring 
in  his  Fifth  Avenue  mansion  I  dined  with  Harmon, 
who,  like  myself,  was  all  white  shirt-front  and  collar. 
He  was  testy  with  his  wife  over  squab-chicken,  and 
champagne  that  had  not  been  cooled  quite  to  his  taste; 
and  not  a  month  later  I  ran  across  him  in  a  native  camp, 
contentedly  eating  toasted  ants  served  him  by  a  brown- 
limbed  native  girl.  When  I  first  go  out  in  the  open,  after 
six  months  or  so  in  New  York,  I  get  down  in  the  sand  and 
roll  like  a  dog  for  pure  joy  of  it.  And  in  the  hills  I  find 
a  rock  and  lie  cheek  to  it.  I  have  to  rub  my  nose  against 
nature,  dust  myself  all  over,  get  rid  of  the  first  delight, 

178 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

before    the    mentally    cultivated    half   of    me    resumes 
sway." 

"If  women  had  the  same  chance  to  develop  all  sides, 
if  they  trekked  into  the  wilds  when  the  urge  is  upon  them, 
I  wonder  what  they  would  grow  into?"  Myra  mused. 

"Into  an  entirely  new  type  that  the  man  of  to-day  is 
not  capable  of  understanding.  There  is  no  respect  in 
which  we  are  more  backward  than  in  our  understanding 
of  women.  It's  man  nature  to  be  on  the  safe  side  when 
it  comes  to  his  womenkind,  because  at  best  he  regards 
her  as  quite  as  much  a  trouble-making  quantity  as  one 
that  affords  delight.  So  the  average  man  adheres  closely 
to  the  rules  laid  down  in  the  old,  man-written  Grammar 
of  Women.  We  won't  even  bestir  ourselves  to  get  out 
a  new  edition  on  the  subject.  Woman  will  have  to  do 
that  herself.  I  don't  see  why  she  should  not  write  her 
own  grammar,  rather  than  let  man  write  it  for  her." 

"We  can't  write  until  we  understand  ourselves  better. 
We  need  the  all-rounding  experience  first." 

Under  cover  of  the  twilight  Alyth  studied  her  keenly. 
What  step  was  she  meditating,  he  wondered  ?  She  looked 
too  frail  for  much  trekking  into  the  wilds.  Still,  though 
thin  and  very  white,  she  looked  less  wretched  than  she 
had  at  Woodmansie  Place.  With  the  inside  knowledge 
of  events  he  possessed,  Alyth  had  listened  with  quick 
interest  to  New  Rome's  comments  on  Myra's  illness, 
and  St.  Claire's  visits  to  New  Rome.  On  his  way  west 
he  had  stopped  in  St.  Louis  and  gone  out  to  Woodmansie 
Place,  to  be  told  there  that  Myra  was  ill  and  at  her 
father's.  He  had  thought  of  her  innumerable  times  since 
the  afternoon  they  had  spent  before  her  fire.  Something 
his  son  had  said  to  him  about  Myra  had  been  in  his  mind 
all  evening. 

"She  said  it  might  be  a  long  time,  but  some  day  she 
was  going  to  have  a  little  boy  like  me,"  Dick  had  said. 
"She  hugged  me  up  and  told  it  to  me  in  my  ear." 

179 


THE   LIF^E-BUILDERS 

Alyth  began  to  talk  of  his  boys.  "Dick  appears  to 
be  a  good  friend  of  yours,"  he  remarked.  "He  describes 
you  somewhat  romantically  as  'The  lady  on  the  hill."' 

"Yes,"  Myra  said.  "I  hope  when  you  come  again 
you  will  bring  him  with  you." 

"I  will  when  I  come  back  from  California,  if  you  are 
here  then." 

Myra  made  no  answer  to  his  questioning  inflection, 
and  he  continued: 

"I  hope  Dick  will  choose  a  profession  that  brings  him 
close  to  nature.  The  little  fellow  has  the  urge  to  create, 
and  along  mechanical-engineering  lines.  He  is  an  inven- 
tive genius.  The  trait  has  developed  in  him  rapidly." 

" He  is  unusual,"  Myra  agreed.  "I  have  watched  him. 
When  he  was  here  the  other  day  he  made  this,"  and  Myra 
took  from  a  niche  in  the  arbor  and  placed  on  the  arm  of 
Alyth's  chair  Dick's  invention  for  lifting  pebbles. 

"A  rock-hoister — it's  on  the  same  principle!  I  don't 
believe  the  child  ever  saw  one,  either."  Alyth  flushed 
with  pleasure  as  he  bent  over  it  in  the  half-light.  He 
lifted  a  vivid  glance  to  Myra.  "He  is  a  bit  out  of  the 
ordinary,  isn't  he?  ...  I  confess  I've  been  hopeless  about 
my  boys — Caroline  seemed  to  possess  them  body  and 
soul — but  the  last  year  it's  grown  on  me  that  they  won't 
always  be  in  the  infantile  stage.  It's  Dick  that  has 
pulled  me  out  of  despair.  She  can't  shake  the  spirit  out 
of  him  or  keep  him  within  the  circle  of  a  dollar!  .  .  .  But 
the  constant  friction  and  the  perpetual  rebellion — there 
seems  to  be  no  way  I  can  save  him  that — poor  little 
chap!"  Alyth's  face  clouded  as  he  turned  away  from 
Dick's  device. 

Myra  did  not  say  what  she  was  thinking — that  a  child 
never  lost  the  marks  of  friction  and  rebellion.  She  felt 
that  she  herself  was  covered  with  scars  that  burned. 
Instead  she  led  him  to  talk  of  other  things.  They  sat 
in  the  dimness  of  the  lower  terrace,  looking  down  on  the 

180 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

night-show  of  the  valley  until  the  court-house  clock  twice 
chimed  the  hour.  It  was  not  until  Mrs.  Milenberg,  either 
as  a  protection  from  possible  chill  or  as  a  hint  to  Alyth  to 
be  gone,  sent  down  a  shawl  to  Myra,  that  he  roused.  The 
same  spell  was  on  him  that  had  kept  him  with  her  until 
St.  Claire  had  come  upon  them. 

He  took  the  shawl  and  wrapped  it  about  her  carefully. 
"I  am  forgetting  time,"  he  said.  "Is  it  best  for  you  to 
sit  out  like  this?  Let  me  take  you  up  now." 

Myra  did  not  realize  until  she  stood  up  how  tired  she 
was.  In  the  pleasure  of  his  visit  she  had  forgotten  how 
easily  she  was  exhausted.  The  journey  up  the  terraces 
was  always  a  toilsome  one,  accomplished  only  after  more 
than  one  stop,  and  when  she  flagged  Alyth  took  her  arm. 
By  determined  effort  she  managed  to  climb  half-way  up 
the  steps  to  the  first  terrace.  But  there  she  gave  out, 
and,  reaching  for  the  stone  balustrade,  she  clung  to  it, 
gasping: 

"I — can't  go  on — just  yet — " 

Alyth  was  startled.  "I  didn't  realize  that  you  were  so 
weak!  Why  did  you  let  me  tire  you  out  like  this?  .  .  . 
Here,  lean  against  me." 

They  stood  back  to  the  balustrade,  and  Alyth  put  his 
arm  about  her,  supporting  her.  When  the  light  at  the 
top  of  the  steps  showed  him  her  face  Alyth  reaHzed  that 
she  was  completely  exhausted. 

"Put  your  head  back  on  my  shoulder.  Trying  to  hold 
one's  head  up  takes  effort." 

Myra  did  as  she  was  bidden,  for  the  world  was  going 
black.  Alyth's  "You  are  not  going  to  faint?  Don't  try 
to  hold  yourself  up.  Relax,"  though  spoken  close  to  her 
ear,  came  to  her  from  a  long  way  off. 

Alyth  held  her  up,  then  he  drew  her  close.  Her  head 
hung  back  a  little,  her  face  upturned,  and  he  looked  down 
on  the  carven  contrast  of  dark  brows  so  marked  against 
the  white  skin  that  their  arch  appeared  penciled,  the 

181 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

lashes  a  black  line  above  sunken  cheeks.  The  shawl  had 
loosened,  showing  her  throat.  But  for  her  slightly  parted 
lips,  quivering  with  short-drawn  breaths,  and  the  soft, 
live  curves  of  chin  and  throat,  the  face  had  the  remote- 
ness and  austerity  of  the  dead. 

But  her  throat  with  its  suggestion  of  pulsing  life,  and 
the  heart-beat  under  his  hand,  the  slim,  firm-bosomed 
body  that  with  a  motion  he  could  have  turned  and 
held  against  his  breast,  were  alive,  compelling  enough. 
Alyth's  dark  face  darkened  still  more,  almost  to  purple, 
as  he  looked  down  at  her  and  watched  strength  slowly 
revive.  This  intimate  clasp,  and  her  complete  depend- 
ence, touched  off  the  thing  that  had  been  lightly  slumber- 
ing within  him  for  many  days,  a  restless,  hovering  interest 
to  which  he  had  given  no  name,  because  it  had  till  now 
scarcely  lifted  out  of  his  subconsciousness.  But  this  was 
a  pulsing  enough  realization. 

He  had  no  answer  for  her  when  she  unclosed  her  eyes, 
and  said,  more  clearly,  "Things  went  out  for  a  moment." 
A  moment  that  for  him  had  been  a  swaying  on  a  hot  sea. 

He  released  her,  helping  her  silently  as  she  went  slow- 
ly on.  On  the  upper  terrace  she  stopped  again. 

"I  am  so  good  for  nothing!"  she  said,  with  a  gasping 
exasperation  that  was  half  a  sob.  "What  am  I  to  do  if 
I  stay  like  this!" 

Alyth  had  found  his  voice  now.  "You  will  be  better; 
it  is  simply  exhaustion.  .  .  .  Let  us  sit  down  for  a  few 
minutes." 

There  were  benches  on  the  upper  terrace  set  so  as  to 
face  the  view,  and  Myra  willingly  took  the  first  one  they 
reached.  It  was  some  time  before  her  breath  came  regu- 
larly, a  space  during  which  Alyth  said  nothing,  but  twice 
his  hands  touched  her,  drawing  the  shawl  more  closely 
about  her.  It  was  not  until  Myra  said,  in  her  usual  voice, 
"I  can  go  on  now,"  that  he  asked,  abruptly: 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do — go  back  to  him?" 

182 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

It  was  his  voice  more  than  the  abrupt  question  that 
arrested  Myra,  the  hotly  irritated  note.  The  question 
sounded  to  her  like  an  accusation,  and  her  answer  came 
a  little,  hotly: 

"Did  you  think  I  would  do  that?"  She  had  stiffened 
and  turned  so  that  she  faced  him. 

He  hesitated.     "I  was  not  certain — " 

"You  know  I  wouldn't!  I  couldn't.  ...  I  am  done  with 
marriage — as  I  have  known  it." 

"You  have  a  fight  before  you,  then."  His  tone  was 
quieter,  kinder. 

"I  know  it;  that  is  why  I  want  my  strength.  .  .  .  You 
know  What  caused  the  final  rupture?  .  .  .  She  has  told  you, 
of  course.  I  know  you  are  friends." 

"Yes,  she  told  me.  ...  I've  always  been  her  friend. 
It's  been  a  sort  of  lifetime  friendship.  I  suppose  we  have 
remained  friends  because  she's  more  nearly  like  a  man  in 
some  of  her  characteristics  than  any  woman  I  have  ever 
known,  and  that  eliminated  the  sex  complication.  In  a 
way  it's  been  an  analyst's  interest  I've  taken  in  her. 
She  is  a  curious  combination,  or  rather  a  whole  set  of 
curious  combinations;  she  is  both  primitive  and  subtle, 
wise  and  ignorant;  she  has  the  Catholic  peasant's  awe 
of  the  priest,  and  a  twentieth-century  lawyer's  brain  and 
methods.  I  have  an  honest  admiration  for  Harriet  Swift, 
and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  utterly  disapprove  of  her 
relations  with  St.  Claire.  She  has  stood  by  him  through 
everything — she  will  always  stand  by  him,  unless  it  should 
come  to  a  choice  between  him  and  her  child.  Then  she 
would  not  hesitate  a  moment,  for  she  loves  that  lame 
girl  of  hers  beyond  any  one  or  anything.  How  much  of 
her  loyalty  to  St.  Claire  is  based  on  her  determination  to 
work  out  a  future  for  her  child  I  don't  know.  With  her 
the  end  sanctifies  the  means;  that  has  been  her  rearing." 

"And  the  little  girl — have  you  seen  her?''  Myra's 
voice  was  low, 

183 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Yes.  She  has  a  beautiful  face.  She  is  unmistakably 
a  St.  Claire.  But  she  has  a  poor  little  frail  body.  A 
sweet-natured  child  she  seemed  to  me  when  I  met  her 
in  Paris  last  year,  with  the  air  of  melancholy,  or  rather 
of  pathos,  about  her  that  is  usual  with  the  deformed. 
She  makes  a  double  appeal  to  that  big,  Junoesque  woman. 
She  broods  over  her  with  some  of  the  ferocity  of  a  she- 
tiger." 

Myra  drew  a  short  breath.  "You  know,  of  course, 
that  I  married  in  ignorance  of  it  all?" 

"I  was  not  certain  of  it  in  the  beginning;  it  didn't 
seem  possible  he  would  run  such  a  risk.  I  decided  it  was 
so  later  on." 

"And  if  you  had  chosen  you  could  have  saved  me — 
how  much  it  remains  to  be  seen.  ...  I  have  often  thought, 
in  these  months  when  I  have  been  able  to  do  nothing  but 
think:  suppose  I  had  been  a  clean,  honest  boy  of  twenty, 
and  Justin  the  woman  in  question?  You  would  not  have 
hesitated  long.  You  would  have  saved  the  boy."  Myra 
had  felt  the  hurt  of  it  and  could  not  restrain  the  reproach. 

Alyth  winced.  "It  is  not  easy  to  go  back  of  one's 
rearing.  ...  In  a  way  I  have  reproached  myself.  Yet  if 
the  same  combination  of  circumstances  arose  again  I 
doubt  if  I  should  act  differently.  If  I  did  it  would  be 
doing  violence  to  something  in  me.  I  went  far  when 
I  dragged  out  my  private  affairs  and  aired  them;  but 
I  felt  driven  to  do  something.  I  didn't  realize  then — I 
know  now  that  I  didn't  want  him  to  have  you — "  He 
stopped  abruptly. 

But  Myra  was  following  her  thoughts,  not  his  apology. 
"A  man  is  always  a  man's  friend.  ...  I  wonder  if  he  ever 
is  really  a  woman's  friend?"  She  sighed,  then  rose  a  little 
abruptly.  "Yes,  one's  rearing  is  responsible  for  a  deal. 
.  .  .  Let  us  go  up  now." 

Alyth  said  nothing,  though  he  kept  at  her  side.  After 
an  appreciable  pause,  he  answered,  quietly,  "Occasion- 

184 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

ally  a  man  is  really  a  friend,  even  to  the  woman  who 
strongly  attracts  him,  though  I  fancy  he  has  to  fight 
through  a  good  deal  to  reach  it.  ...  I  am  your  friend, 
Myra  St.  Claire — I  always  have  been,  in  spite  of  my 
shortcomings.  You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

"I  hope  you  are,"  Myra  said,  with  a  touch  of  feeling. 
"I  like  to  think  you  are." 

They  had  come  to  the  house,  and  at  the  entrance  Alyth 
stopped.  "I  must  go  now,"  he  said.  He  lifted  one  of 
her  hands  and  laid  it  on  his  broader  palm,  looking  at  it. 
"You  know,  I  have  always  liked  your  hands.  I  have  a 
tremendous  faith  in  them.  They  are  the  hands  of  an 
accomplisher,  and  at  the  same  time  they  are  beautiful — 
the  most  beautiful  thing  about  you.  ...  If  ever  there  is 
anything  I  can  do  for  you — as  man  for  man — you'll  let 
me  know?" 

"Thank  you,"  Myra  returned,  as  gravely.  "I  shall 
need  friends." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  was  not  until  October  that  the  little  gray  doctor 
nodded  his  approval  of  Myra.  "Sehr  gut!"  he  said, 
lifting  his  head  from  her  chest.  I  was  afraid  at  first  of 
that  important  little  organ.  I  do  not  like  to  see  lips  so 
blue  as  yours  sometimes  became,  but  I  will  confide  to 
you  now  that  had  I  a  heart  half  so  strong  as  yours  I 
should  expect  to  live  till  ninety."  He  eyed  Myra  keenly. 
"There  is  no  more  a  hot  box  at  the  base  of  your  brain?" 

Myra  smiled  at  him. 

"And  the  houses  no  longer  sit  on  your  head — nein? 
.  .  .  Hereafter,  then,  let  them  sit  upon  their  proper  foun- 
dation— the  earth.  Ende  gut,  alles  gut." 

But  Myra  knew  that  it  was  only  the  beginning  with  her. 
She  knew  perfectly  what  her  father's  squared  shoulders 
meant  when  a  few  days  later  he  came  briskly  down  the 
terraces  to  her,  just  as  she  had  known  all  day  what  her 
mother's  anxious  look  portended.  Milenberg  was  snatch- 
ing time  from  business  to  settle  his  family  for  the  winter. 
In  a  few  days  the  younger  girls  would  return  from  Europe ; 
he  had  their  winter  campaign  to  plan.  Eustace,  after  a 
summer  spent  in  Chicago  on  short  rations,  had  been  com- 
pelled into  one  of  Milenberg's  many  offices  under  prom- 
ise to  learn  something  of  business.  And  now  there  was 
Myra's  affair  to  settle. 

He  began  without  preamble:  "Well,  you're  looking 
fit  again.  You  know  your  husband  and  your  home  are 
waiting  for  you.  Isn't  it  about  time  you  went  back  to 
them?  ...  I  don't  begrudge  you  a  home,  but  a  little  longer 

1 86 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

and  the  cat  will  be  out  of  the  bag — it  will  get  about  that 
there  is  trouble  between  you  and  your  husband,  and 
that's  the  thing  we  don't  any  of  us  want.  Be  sensible 
and  go  back  to  him.  I  don't  think  he  needed  it — I  think 
he's  been  ill-treated  myself — but  if  by  any  chance  he  did 
need  a  salutary  lesson,  you  have  given  it  to  him.  Forget 
the  upheaval,  and  go  back  to  your  duty,  Myra.  Justin 
will  receive  you  with  open  arms." 

"So  he  has  written  me,"  Myra  answered,  composedly. 

Milenberg  did  not  like  her  manner.  "In  a  month  the 
family's  got  to  be  in  Chicago,  and  then  your  mother's 
hands  will  be  full  with  the  girls,"  he  urged.  "I'm  taking 
her  up  with  me  to  the  city  this  afternoon  to  look  the 
house  over  and  arrange  for  some  renovating.  You  know 
I  want  the  girls  to  come  out  there  and  then  visit  you  at 
Woodmansie  Place.  It's  going  to  be  bad  business  for 
them  if  it's  known  you've  left  your  husband.  Justin 
has  an  established  reputation;  our  family  hasn't;  the 
blame  would  be  laid  at  your  door.  I  want  your  sisters 
to  marry  as  soon  as  possible,  and  men  are  apt  to  shy  at 
girls  who  make  a  mess  of  things,  as  you've  tried  to  do. 
One  sister  is  judged  by  another." 

"Yes,"  Myra  said,  steadily,  "I  have  thought  of  the 
girls." 

She  and  her  father  were  seated  in  the  arbor  where  two 
months  before  she  had  sat  with  Alyth;  where  two  years 
before  they  had  all  gathered  after  dinner.  Myra  re- 
membered the  hot,  quick  beating  of  her  heart  when  St. 
Claire  had  led  her  off  to  see  the  garden.  The  arbor  had 
escaped  Milenberg's  innovations,  possibly  because  Jan- 
niss  had  urged  that  it  be  retained.  The  bed  of  love-in- 
a-mist  still  flourished,  sprayed  occasionally  from  the 
brimming  gourds  held  by  the  water-nymphs  at  the  foun- 
tain edge. 

Myra  remembered  it  all  with  the  dull  ache  that  had 
become  habitual  when  thinking  of  the  past.  She  lifted 
13  187 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

her  eyes,  only  to  see  her  mother  standing  aimlessly  on 
the  upper  terrace.  Mrs.  Milenberg  had  hurried  away 
when  she  saw  her  husband  coming.  She  knew  his  errand, 
and  was  waiting  to  hear  the  result.  Myra  could  not 
take  her  eyes  from  her  mother's  shapeless  figure;  she  was 
pathetic  in  the  midst  of  all  that  unsatisfying  grandeur. 
She  was  thinking  of  her  children,  of  course.  Were  they 
ever  out  of  her  thoughts  for  a  moment? 

Something  in  Myra's  expression  touched  off  the  shrewd- 
ness that  was  Milenberg's  gift.  "If  you  did  such  a  fool 
thing  as  to  get  into  a  legal  tangle  with  St.  Claire  I  be- 
lieve it  would  kill  your  mother,"  he  said,  tersely.  "She 
loves  you  full  as  well  as  she  does  Eustace.  You'd  be  hit- 
ting your  sisters  a  blow,  too." 

A  spasm  crossed  Myra's  face.  She  looked  down  at 
her  clasped  hands.  "How  is  Eustace  doing  now?"  she 
asked,  a  little  huskily. 

Under  his  cool  exterior  Milenberg  felt  the  elation  that 
was  his  whenever  he  discovered  a  loose  plate  in  the  armor 
of  a  financial  adversary.  Myra's  reserve  had  begun  to 
worry  him.  She  had  a  determined  will;  she  had  cer- 
tainly succeeded  in  leaving  her  husband's  house.  It  would 
be  awkward  if  she  should  announce  that  she  meant  to 
stay  where  she  was. 

"Eustace?  .  .  .  Oh,  he's  sitting  around  my  office,  a 
nuisance  to  everybody.  He's  quiescent  at  present;  no 
money  to  raise  hell  with."  Then,  with  the  cool  persist- 
ence that  had  gained  him  every  victory  he  had  ever  won, 
he  pressed  his  advantage.  "Your  mother's  not  strong; 
she'd  break  if  one  of  you  children  got  into  trouble." 

Myra  did  not  lift  her  eyes,  for  fear  her  father  would 
see  the  fire  in  them.  If  she  looked  into  his  face  she  would 
speak  her  mind,  and  what  she  wanted  was  peace.  She 
could  not  endure  a  repetition  of  the  scenes  at  Woodmansie 
Place.  But  feeling  ran  hot  in  her.  Who  was  it  had  carved 
the  lines  in  her  mother's  face?  Her  father  had  gone  a 

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THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

step  too  far  in  urgency,  a  rare  thing  with  him  in  business, 
but  in  this  case  he  was  dealing  with  a  woman,  and  she 
his  daughter,  so  he  had  not  been  so  careful  as  usual. 
Of  what  use  to  yield  to  so  omnivorous  a  will  as  his  ?  What 
had  her  mother  gained  by  it?  What  would  her  sisters 
gain  by  it? 

"It  is  a  pity  about  Eustace,"  she  said  in  an  expres- 
sionless way. 

"Well,  let's  drop  Eustace.  .  .  .  When  are  you  going 
back  to  your  husband?"  Milenberg  asked,  brusquely. 
"I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I've  talked  the  matter 
over  with  Justin,  and  if  you  insist  he'll  agree  to  your 
living  separate  from  him,  but  he  feels  as  I  do,  that  you 
owe  it  to  us  all  to  go  back  to  his  house  and  outwardly, 
at  least,  let  things  be  as  they  have  been." 

"He  has  said  the  same  to  me — and  more.  I  don't 
want  to  talk  about  it;  I  shall  write  to  him."  She  rose, 
determined  to  escape  further  talk.  "I  am  going  up  to 
mother.  I  want  time  to  think." 

"All  right,  think  it  over.  I  don't  want  to  hurry  you, 
but  in  a  couple  of  days  I'll  bring  your  mother  back  with 
me  from  Chicago,  and  then  I  want  an  answer.  You  can't 
stay  on  here  indefinitely;  the  thing  must  be  settled.  I 
want  you  back  at  Woodmansie  Place  before  I  go  to  San 
Francisco.  It's  important  business.  I'll  be  kept  there  a 
while,  and  I  don't  mean  to  be  bothered  when  I'm  there 
by  family  affairs.  ...  If  I  didn't  know  it  was  for  your 
own  good,  I  wouldn't  urge  it,  but  it  is — for  yours  and 
everybody's." 

"Very  well,"  Myra  said,  turning  away. 

Her  father  watched  her  go,  with  mingled  annoyance 
and  satisfaction.  Since  this  trouble  of  Myra's  had  come 
up  he  had  congratulated  himself  innumerable  times  on 
the  astuteness  that  had  denied  her  request  for  some 
settled  sum  that  she  could  call  her  own.  The  appeal  to 
her  affections  he  judged  would  be  effective,  but  most 

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THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

questions  came  down  to  a  matter  of  dollars  and  cents, 
and  Myra's  affair  was  no  different  from  any  other  business 
proposition. 

Myra  came  up  the  terrace  to  meet  her  mother's  anx- 
ious question,  "You  and  your  father  haven't  quarreled, 
have  you,  dear?" 

"No,"  Myra  said,  gently,  "we  have  not  quarreled, 
mother  dear.  He  wants  me  to  go  back  to  Woodmansie 
Place  at  once,  and  I  have  said  I  would  give  him  an  an- 
swer when  you  come  back  from  Chicago.  ...  I  don't 
want  to  talk  about  it,  mother;  the  whole  thing  makes 
me  feel  ill.  That  is  why  I  have  not  talked  with  you 
about  it  all  these  months,  and  I  want  to  thank  you  for 
not  forcing  it  on  me.  Let  us  not  discuss  it  now.  I  shall 
try  to  do  what  is  right." 

"It  is  best  to  be  forgiving,  dear." 

"So  we  have  always  been  told.  .  .  .  Father  says  you 
are  going  this  afternoon.  Let  me  help  you  get  ready." 

Myra  sent  away  the  maid  and  herself  packed  her 
mother's  bag.  Luncheon  over,  she  helped  her  to  dress,  lis- 
tening meantime  to  anxious  instructions  about  the  house- 
hold. Now  that  Myra  was  well,  they  had  gone  back 
to  their  old  relations,  Myra  caring  for  her  mother;  only 
to-day  she  was  doubly  tender.  She  was  childishly  eager 
for  the  touch  of  her  mother's  hand.  She  put  her  cheek 
to  it,  caressed  it.  In  spite  of  Mrs.  Milenberg's  protest 
she  knelt  and  put  on  her  shoes.  Myra  clung  so  to  her 
in  parting  that  Mrs.  Milenberg  laughed  affectionately  at 
her. 

"You  behave  as  you  used  when  you  were  four  years 
old,"  she  said.  "Whenever  your  father  took  me  off 
anywheres  you  used  to  hold  to  my  skirts  till  the  last 
minute." 

"You  know  I  love  you,  mother?  ...  I  love  you  better 
than  any  one  living.  You  know  that?" 

"I  believe  you  do,"  Mrs.  Milenberg  said,  the  tears 

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THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

gathering  in  her  eyes.  "It  would  be  everything  to  me 
to  see  you  happy  again,  Myra." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  be.  I  mean  to  knock  again  on  the 
door  of  happiness — "  If  her  father  had  not  called  im- 
patiently that  they  would  be  late,  Myra  might  have  spoken 
from  a  heart  too  full  for  concealment. 

But  Mrs.  Milenberg,  obedient  as  always,  had  hurried 
off,  and  Myra  watched  from  the  window  as  long  as  the 
automobile  was  visible,  the  tears  brimming  in  her  eyes 
when  it  slipped  out  of  sight.  Myra  rarely  wept,  but  the 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  while  she  wrote,  speaking 
to  her  mother  on  paper: 

MOTHER  DEAR, — I  am  going  in  the  morning  to  New  York, 
and  shall  leave  this  to  be  given  you  on  your  return.  I  want 
you  to  have  it  while  father  is  with  you,  for  I  don't  want  you  to 
be  frightened,  as  you  would  be  if  you  were  alone.  Father  will 
tell  you  that  I  am  in  no  danger.  I  have  not  gone  off  with  any 
thought  of  hiding  myself,  or  of  doing  anything  wrong  or  secret. 
I  have  simply  left  father's  house  as  I  left  Justin's,  because  I 
want  to  make  a  home  of  my  own — not  one  furnished  me — but 
a  place  paid  for  with  my  own  efforts.  I  want  to  be  free,  eco- 
nomically and  in  spirit,  just  as  a  man  is.  I  have  enough  to  keep 
me  for  a  time,  until  I  find  something  to  do  by  which  I  can  earn 
my  own  bread. 

This  is  not  a  sudden  idea  of  mine.  I  longed  for  it  when  I  was 
in  New  York  with  you  last  spring.  Even  before  that  I  often 
thought  of  it — it  has  been  in  my  mind  ever  since  I  knew  that 
Justin  and  I  were  in  no  sense  one,  that  we  never  could  be  one. 
In  your  first  panic  it  may  occur  to  you  that  I  have  gone  because 
of  some  man.  Father  and  Justin  may  think  the  same  thing, 
though  from  what  I  have  said  to  them  they  should  know  better. 
You,  even  more  than  they,  consider  that  a  woman  lives  only  in 
and  through  and  by  reason  of  some  man.  You  have  guided 
your  whole  life  by  that  principle,  so  some  such  fear  may  trouble 
you.  Don't  let  it.  I  am  in  love  with  no  one,  mother  dear,  un- 
less it  is  you.  I  love  you  dearly.  From  a  little  baby  I  have 
loved  you.  It  has  been  watching  you,  understanding  your 

191 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

troubles,  that  has  given  me  many  of  what  you  call  "  my  ad- 
vanced ideas."  If  I  thought  that  in  the  end  I  should  be  doing 
you  harm  by  following  my  convictions,  I  doubt  if  I  could  go  on. 
What  I  am  doing  can't  really  hurt  you  unless  you  allow  yourself 
to  take  a  wrong  view  of  it. 

So  I  say  again  I  am  not  being  led  away  by  a  man,  or  fol- 
lowing a  man,  or  any  of  the  things  you  may  think.  No  man 
has  entered  into  my  calculations.  There  is  no  one  whom  I  love 
or  want.  I  think  I  am  simply  very  much  in  love  with  life,  and 
that  I  want  to  live  it  in  the  future  not  as  you  have  lived  it,  and 
not  as  Justin  and  father  would  have  me  live  it,  but  in  accordance 
with  my  own  conception. 

There  is  one  thing  I  want  very  much — I  want  Justin  to  free 
me  legally.  I  want  it  for  all  our  sakes — because  it  is  the  sensible 
thing.  Knowing  what  I  do  of  Justin,  that  for  years  there  has 
been  another  woman  who  has  meant  much  more  to  him  than  I 
ever  have;  knowing  what  I  do  of  myself,  of  my  wish  for  love, 
and  a  home  in  which  I  can  be  copartner  with  my  husband,  and 
not  the  makeshift  thing  I  have  been  and  always  would  be  to 
Justin — a  cross  between  an  odalisque  and  a  chatelaine;  knowing 
how  much  I  want  a  child,  the  thing  he  does  not  want — I  feel 
we  should  be  parted.  What  I  beg  of  father  is  that  he  will  do 
what  he  can  to  make  it  possible. 

Then  about  the  girls.  Father  wants  me  to  help  marry  them 
off  this  winter.  Feeling  as  I  do,  I  cannot  do  it.  They  are  only 
eighteen.  What  do  they  know  of  the  big  thing  you  and  father 
want  to  hurry  upon  them?  Just  nothing  at  all.  Possibly  they 
have  the  same  conglomeration  of  ideas  I  had,  that  I  still  have 
— with  the  exception  of  the  one  idea  that  my  unhappiness  has 
fixed  in  my  mind,  that  in  marriage  mutual  love  in  its  highest 
sense  is  the  only  law,  that  without  it  marriage  is  merely  a 
cover  for  unbeautiful  motives.  In  my  case,  as  viewed  by  father 
and  Justin,  it  was  an  arrangement  for  social  and  financial  bene- 
fits into  which  I  was  led  blindfold.  Justin  had  no  real  love 
for  me.  There  was  not  a  particle  of  love  in  his  feeling  for  me. 
Mother,  he  has  hurt  what  is  nice  in  me — he  has  made  me 
ashamed.  I  cannot  endure  him.  There  is  no  one  else  to 
whom  I  could  tell  this  but  you. 

So  don't  hurry  the  girls.  Give  them  time.  Give  them  a 

192 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

chance  to  know.  And  don't  think  I  am  blaming  you  for  my 
unhappiness.  You  were  trained  not  to  understand  the  realities, 
so  you  are  not  to  blame.  You  advised  me  as  well  as  you  could. 
You  have  been  sweet  and  loving  and  self-sacrificing  always. 
You  have  always  been  dear  to  me,  and  I  have  never  wanted 
you  more  than  I  do  now  as  I  sit  writing  to  you.  I  shall  always 
want  you.  I  feel  that  sometimes  we  will  be  much  closer  and 
more  understanding  of  each  other  than  we  have  ever  been — 
perhaps  when  life  has  taught  me  more,  and  you  have  opened 
your  mind  to  some  of  the  things  that  have  crowded  into  mine. 
I  could  not  shut  them  out,  because  I  was  born  a  generation 
later  than  you  and  was  not  so  carefully  trained  to  resist  them. 
And  I  have  had  an  experience  that  has  made  me  think — possibly 
wrongly  sometimes — but  from  the  beginning  I  have  been  abso- 
lutely sincere. 

And  now,  mother,  you  must  not  worry  over  me.  In  spite  of  my 
mistaken  marriage — a  mistake  I  think  most  girls  would  have 
made — I  am  a  fairly  sensible  and  capable  woman.  As  long  as 
I  think  rightly  I  will  come  to  no  harm.  I  want  to  be  so  busy 
that  I  shall  forget  the  ugly  things.  Please  help  me  by  not 
agonizing  over  me.  Try  to  take  my  view — that  the  world  is 
full  of  work  that  a  woman  can  do,  and  not  necessarily  within 
her  home,  though  that  is  the  work  I  love  best,  just  as  you  do. 
You  once  said  to  me  that  you  thought  there  was  no  "half- 
way." That  there  was  only  one  marriage,  and  that  death  alone 
dissolved  it.  That  the  joy  of  self-sacrifice  was  the  highest 
happiness.  Try  to  think  with  me  that  there  is  waiting  for  me 
in  the  future  another  chance  of  happiness — a  more  rational 
idea  than  the  martyr  conception  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Try  to 
conceive  of  a  future  in  which  men  and  women  are  more  nearly 
equal  in  opportunity  and  in  the  judgments  meted  out  to  them. 

Not  a  word  I  have  written  has  been  written  unlovingly,  but 
with  all  my  love — every  bit  of  it. 

Your  devoted  daughter, 

MYRA. 

Don't  try  to  follow  me  and  dissuade  me.  Father  may  want 
you  to  do  it.  Don't  do  it;  it  would  be  useless.  I  shall  write 
to  you  often,  and  if  ever  I  am  ill  I  promise  to  send  for  you.  As 

193 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

soon  as  I  find  a  place  to  live  I  will  send  you  my  address.     I  have 
kissed  you  good-by — for  a  little  time. 

MYRA. 

Myra's  note  to  St.  Claire  was  brief: 

DEAR  JUSTIN, — I  have  several  letters  for  which  to  thank  you. 
If  I  had  had  anything  more  to  say  than  I  said  to  you  at  Wood- 
mansie  Place,  I  would  have  answered  before.  I  cannot  come 
back  to  you,  Justin.  We  are  without  love  for  each  other.  I  can- 
not be  as  I  was  to  you,  and  I  will  not  accept  the  alternatives 
you  have  suggested. 

Father  will  tell  you  that  I  have  gone  to  New  York.  I  am 
starting  out  anew  in  life  with  the  earnest  wish  to  make  good, 
and  I  beg  you  to  help  me  by  setting  me  legally  free.  It  is  the 
only  solution  for  us.  Your  child  should  be  your  heir,  and  your 
friend  of  fifteen  years  should  be  your  wife — she  is  your  wife 
now,  really.  I  am  only  twenty-three.  I  have  most  of  life  before 
me.  Won't  you  give  me  the  chance  to  make  the  best  of  it? 
For  once  be  open  and  fair  with  me,  so  I  can  call  you  my  friend? 
With  my  best  wishes, 

MYRA. 

Her  letter  to  her  father  was  written  later,  while  she 
was  waiting  for  daylight. 

DEAR  FATHER, — Forgive  me  for  what  may  appear  a  deceit. 
I  did  not  tell  you  my  intentions  this  afternoon,  because  I  was 
afraid  of  such  another  scene  as  at  Woodmansie  Place,  and  I  need 
all  my  strength. 

You  will  see  my  letter  to  mother,  so  I  need  not  repeat.  I  will 
never  return  to  Justin.  Any  plan  you  may  have  that  includes 
that  possibility  is  useless.  I  mean  to  find  work  of  some  sort 
that  will  not  bring  me  before  the  public.  For  all  our  sakes  I 
want  to  avoid  newspaper  notoriety.  I  know  that  to  find  some- 
thing to  do  will  not  be  easy,  for  I  am  trained  to  nothing.  My 
earning  capacity  is  on  a  par  with  that  of  any  fairly  intelligent 
housekeeper.  I  have  an  aptitude  for  drawing,  and  that  is  my 
only  asset. 

194 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

I  know  it's  useless  just  now  to  make  a  request.  Your  plan  will 
be  to  starve  me  put,  and,  if  that  does  not  succeed,  to  tire  me  out. 
Nevertheless,  I  am  going  to  make  a  request:  please  do  not  try 
to  coerce  me.  I  am  your  daughter,  and  frequently  I  recognize 
in  myself  some  of  your  own  persistency  and  cool  resourcefulness. 
Help  me,  instead.  I  have  a  little  of  your  capability.  I  have  it 
in  me  to  succeed  in  an  undertaking,  and  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of 
work.  But  I  have  no  training.  If  you  will  give  me  enough  for 
a  course  at  some  good  polytechnic,  I  will  make  good.  A  little  of 
your  loose  change  would  do  it,  and  it  is  the  only  legacy  I  should 
ever  ask  of  you. 

But  whether  you  help  me  or  not,  I  mean  in  the  end  to 
become  a  self-supporting  woman.  Some  time  in  the  long  fu- 
ture I  hope  to  have  a  real  home,  a  husband  who  will  be  my 
friend  as  well,  and  children.  I  look  forward  to  it  as  mother 
does  to  heaven — a  thing  that  is  a  long  way  off  and  very 
beautiful. 

Only  one  thing  more.  I  know  your  methods  so  well.  You 
will  have  me  shadowed  in  New  York.  While  you  are  in  Cali- 
fornia you  will  know  exactly  what  I  am  doing.  I  am  quite  in- 
different— I  shall  do  nothing  of  which  I  am  ashamed.  But  I 
warn  you,  if  the  person  in  your  employ  tries  to  interfere  with  me 
in  the  least  particular,  if  through  you  I  lose  the  opportunity  to 
work,  I  shall  send  an  intimation  to  George  Hampton  Merwin  that 
•will  bring  him  from  Washington  by  the  first  train.  Did  you  sup- 
pose I  was  a  wooden  doll  at  Woodmansie  Place  when  you  and 
Justin  and  the  group  used  to  meet?  Did  Justin  think  I  was 
bereft  of  my  senses  when  he  used  me  to  smile  on  the  men  you 
wanted  to  influence?  I  could  interest  Merwin.  I  haven't  much 
money,  and  it  would  take  just  some  such  underhand  trick  as 
driving  me  out  of  work  to  make  me  desperate.  I'm  willing  to 
let  things  take  their  natural  course,  but  coerced  I  will  not  be. 
Live  and  let  live,  father! 

You  may  not  believe  me  when  I  sign  myself  "Your  loving 
daughter";  nevertheless  I  am.  There  is  so  much  in  you  that 
I  admire,  and  you  are  my  father — there  is  nothing  can  change 
that. 

Your  loving  daughter, 

MYRA. 

195 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

Before  the  sun  rose  over  the  hills  Myra  went  down  the 
road  circling  the  terraces.  She  had  watched  through  most 
of  the  night,  sitting  at  her  window.  She  was  leaving  her 
father's  house,  and  not,  as  before,  with  the  sanction  of  all 
the  conventions.  .  .  .  She  saw  the  flaring  furnace  fires  of 
Mill  City  yield  to  daylight.  When  the  train  drew  out 
of  the  valley  the  river  and  the  lowlands  were  streaked  with 
mist. 

As  to  so  many  of  the  children  of  the  Middle  West,  to 
Myra  the  call  was  eastward,  a  craving  to  reach  the  hub 
of  the  great  wheel  that  had  in  the  past  by  its  momentum 
flung  human  energy  westward.  She  was  young,  and  with 
the  urge  to  live  beating  in  her  veins,  warming  her  through 
and  through;  it  was  a  tremendous  thing  to  be  beginning 
life  anew  and  in  the  greatest  center  of  energy  in  the 
Western  Hemisphere. 

Myra  looked  with  parted  lips  and  vague  eyes  at  the 
black  soil  that  had  nourished  her.  As  she  passed  the  fur- 
naces a  downward  sweep  of  soft-coal  smoke  belched  from 
a  smoke-stack  eddied  through  the  car,  a  reminder  of  her 
eager  childhood  and  groping  girlhood.  Her  heart  cried 
within  her  for  another  chance. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MYRA  raised  the  window-shade,  then  piling  the  cush- 
ions behind  her  and  drawing  a  coverlid  over  her 
feet,  she  watched  the  electric  display  of  Broadway.  She 
sat  very  still  and  with  a  look  too  immobile  for  interest. 

Myra  had  been  less  than  a  month  in  New  York.  It  had 
taken  her  more  than  a  week  to  find  this  room  she  called 
home  —  an  odd,  triangular  space  tucked  into  an  angle 
formed  by  the  two  hotel  wings,  and  the  little  bath-room 
adjoining  in  which  over  an  alcohol-stove  she  could  cook  her 
breakfasts.  ,  The  hotel  was  on  the  fringe  of  the  theater 
district,  a  few  doors  west  of  Sixth  Avenue,  second  class, 
therefore  moderate  in  charge,  and  in  the  main  respectable. 
It  housed  a  conglomeration,  theater  people,  many  of 
them ;  a  number  of  working-women,  heads  of  departments 
in  Fifth  Avenue  shops;  newspaper  men  and  women;  a  few 
teachers  for  whom  the  stir  of  the  theater  district  had  at- 
traction, an  antidote,  possibly,  to  too  much  pedagogy — 
busy  people,  nearly  all,  with  little  time  or  curiosity  to 
expend  upon  their  neighbors.  Myra's  room  was  on  the 
tenth  floor  and  looked  southwestward,  in  the  afternoon 
catching  the  sun,  and  at  night  glimpsing  the  electric  de- 
bauch of  Broadway,  its  flashings  and  darkenings,  its  com- 
ings and  goings,  the  winking  eye,  the  galloping  chariot, 
the  writhing,  twirling  serpents,  the  solemn  owl,  the 
crouching  lion,  the  electric  delirium  tremens  of  the 
Great  White  Way. 

In  New  Rome  Myra  had  evolved  her  plan.  It  had  been 
clear  enough  to  her  discernment  that  she  was  fitted  to  do 

197 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

very  few  things;  that  so  far  as  trained  earning  capacity 
was  concerned  she  was,  as  she  had  told  her  father,  on  a 
par  with  the  average  intelligent  housekeeper.  She  had 
executive  ability,  she  had  that  asset,  and  also  she  could 
draw  well.  Her  color  sense  was  good;  she  had  a  natural 
aptitude  for  the  decorative.  But  in  "hustling  for  a  job" 
she  knew  that  they  would  be  of  little  assistance  to  her. 
What  she  needed  was  training,  experience,  and  without 
her  father's  help  they  would  be  almost  impossible  to 
come  at. 

Myra  had  enough  money  to  house  and  feed  her  until 
spring,  and  the  sale  of  her  jewels — if  she  was  brought  to 
that  necessity — would  certainly  pay  her  expenses  for 
another  year.  But  they  allowed  nothing  for  instruction 
in  some  specialty — a  thing  she  must  have  if  she  was  going 
to  make  an  adequate  living  for  herself,  and  to  be  self- 
supporting  was  her  unalterable  determination.  If  only 
she  had  been  taught  some  trade! 

Myra  had  never  counted  upon  her  father's  fortune.  He 
was  absolute  lord  of  his  possessions.  And  he  was  one  of 
those  who  would  not  hesitate  to  cut  a  child  off  without 
a  penny  if  he  were  so  minded.  His  interest  was  in  an- 
other than  the  mother  of  his  children.  Myra  had  always 
felt  that  at  some  time  James  Milenberg  might  set  aside 
his  family.  But  he  owed  his  children  something,  and 
Myra  meant  that,  if  possible,  his  debt  to  her  should  be 
paid  in  practical  coin. 

She  had  formulated  her  plan.  The  first  thing  was  to 
prove  to  her  father  that  she  was  in  deadly  earnest,  and 
the  only  way  in  which  she  could  do  that  was  to  carry 
out  her  threat — work.  A  position  of  some  sort  she  must 
find,  and  when  found  she  must  make  good.  Like  every 
man  who  has  fought  his  own  way,  her  father  respected 
will-power  and  determination.  And  he  had  a  tremendous 
admiration  for  success.  He  would  not  want  her  to  work; 
it  would  offend  the  pride  that  was  no  small  part  of  his 

198 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

composition.  He  would  endeavor  to  drive  her  from  it, 
but  if  she  could  cope  with  him  she  hoped  to  get  enough 
from  him  to  fit  herself  for  self-support. 

She  knew  he  would  not  follow  her  to  New  York.  It 
would  be  giving  her  defiance  of  him  too  much  importance. 
He  would  allow  her  time  in  which  to  become  discouraged. 
He  would  go  to  California  in  all  apparent  indifference. 

Myra  had  puzzled  endlessly  over  her  possibilities, 
until  a  remark  Karl  Janniss  had  once  made  occurred  to 
her.  Once,  when  looking  at  her  drawings,  she  had  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  her  capability.  Janniss  had 
shrugged.  "  You  will  never  make  an  artist ;  you  haven't 
the — feeling." 

"I  have  never  thought  of  that  for  a  moment,"  Myra 
had  returned.  "I  have  wondered,  if  I  chose,  whether  I 
could  use  my  drawing  in  a  commercial  way — designing, 
possibly;  or  interior  decoration?" 

"You  might,"  Janniss  said,  considering.  "Architec- 
tural drawing,  for  instance,  you  would  do  well.  .  .  . 
You  would  make  a  good  draftswoman;  but  one  rarely 
sees  a  woman  in  an  architect's  office." 

The  suggestion  had  clung.  That  was  one  of  the  rea- 
sons she  had  tried  to  find  a  stopping-place  within  walking 
distance  of  the  up-town  architects'  offices.  That  was 
work  she  thought  she  would  enjoy  and  that  would  not 
bring  her  into  public  notice.  She  could  not  serve  in  a 
shop;  there  were  too  many  people  in  New  York  who 
knew  her.  For  an  office  position  she  was  not  trained. 
After  being  shocked  by  the  high  prices  and  long  leases 
demanded  for  apartments  everywhere,  Myra  had  seized 
joyfully  upon  the  little  triangular  room  which  she  was 
permitted  to  rent  by  the  month.  No  questions  had  been 
asked  her,  her  appearance  and  the  fact  that  she  paid 
willingly  having  been  sufficient. 

Then,  with  the  telephone-book  to  guide  her,  Myra 
had  made  a  list  of  the  architects'  offices.  It  was  a  long 

199 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

list — long  enough,  she  thought,  to  afford  one  vacancy.  She 
had  a  collection  of  her  drawings,  her  sole  proof  of  capa- 
bility, and,  armed  with  them  and  wrapped  in  an  almost 
total  ignorance  of  a  draftsman's  duties,  Myra  had  bom- 
barded New  York.  She  started  on  her  quest  on 
the  1 3th  of  November,  a  frosty  day  that  made  furs 
acceptable. 

Myra  did  not  bear  the  usual  marks  of  the  unemployed. 
It  was  true  that  her  gown  and  hat  of  warm  brown  were 
of  the  last  season,  but  they  had  both  been  French  models, 
unusual  in  cut  and  shape,  and  of  exquisite  material,  by 
no  means  out  of  date  except  to  the  blase  investor  in  im- 
ported apparel.  Her  furs,  a  modish  muff  and  stole,  were 
Russian  sable.  With  the  color  of  courage  deep  in  her 
cheeks  she  was  as  arresting  a  vision  as  any  that  walked 
Fifth  Avenue. 

Myra  lived  through  a  week  punctuated  by  rebuffs. 
It  was  useless  to  rage  inwardly  against  the  barriers  every 
employer  had  erected  about  himself.  In  no  office  did 
she  get  further  than  the  table  of  the  head  draftsman. 
As  a  general  thing  the  office-boy,  after  a  stare  of  wonder, 
disposed  of  her.  She  was  assured  innumerable  times, 
and  often  with  scant  courtesy,  that  the  office  was  supplied 
or  that  that  particular  office  never  employed  women  in 
that  capacity,  that  very  few  architects'  offices  did,  and 
frequently  with  the  addition  that  she  had  chosen  the 
deadest  season  of  the  year  for  her  quest.  The  looks  of 
curiosity  and  amusement  cast  upon  her  by  draftsmen, 
and  the  chill  appraising  glances  of  the  stenographers, 
were  not  easy  to  bear — no  easier  to  bear  than  the  glances 
of  masculine  interest  and  feminine  appraisal  that  she 
had  met  with  on  all  sides. 

That  afternoon  Myra  had  come  in  out  of  a  cold  rain, 
pale  from  fatigue  and  depression  and  damp  about  the 
ankles,  the  glow  with  which  she  had  started  out  on  her 
quest  snuffed  out.  That  afternoon  she  had  tried  another 

200 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

set  of  offices.  She  had  learned  that  surveyors  and  map- 
makers  sometimes  employed  women.  Some  of  the  ad- 
dresses she  had  took  her  down-town  into  narrow  streets 
loomed  over  by  sky-scrapers.  The  engineers'  offices,  as 
a  general  thing,  were  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  real- 
estate  offices.  Here  she  had  more  apparent  success,  for 
she  sometimes  saw  the  employers  themselves.  She  went 
into  some  queer  places.  One  broad,  unhealthily  red-faced 
man,  who  was  alone  in  a  small  office  plastered  with  maps, 
examined  Myra  and  her  drawings  with  interest.  He 
studied  her  with  a  full  gaze,  with  eyes  prominent  and  a 
little  bloodshot. 

"Yes,  I  sometimes  use  girls,"  he  said.  "I've  had  a 
man  lately,  but  he  didn't  show  up  this  morning."  He 
"sized"  Myra  up — and  down.  "Haven't  been  looking 
for  a  job  long,  have  you?"  he  inquired. 

"  For  several  days. ' '  She  met  his  look  gravely.  ' '  What 
do  you  pay?" 

"Well,  that  depends.  I  can't  tell  till  I've  seen  you 
work.  Ever  done  any  drafting?" 

Myra  had  answered  in  the  negative. 

"\Yell,  you'll  need  instruction.  But  you  can  draw,  all 
right.  It's  not  too  late.  Want  to  work  on  trial  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon?" 

Myra  hesitated.  She  would  have  liked  mightily  to  dis- 
cover just  what  was  required  of  a  draftsman.  But  the 
small,  untidy,  stale-smelling  room,  and  the  vulgar  man 
who  had  come  close  to  her,  repelled  her. 

"You  employ  only  one  draftsman?"  she  asked  in 
her  cool,  sweet  tones. 

"That's  all.  We'd  get  along  all  right,  my  dear."  He 
had  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

Myra  drew  back  hastily.  "It  will  be  best  for  me  to 
come  in  the  morning." 

The  man  laughed.  "Just  as  you  like.  .  .  .  When  you've 
pawned  that  fur  you  may  not  be  so  top-loftical." 

201 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Myra  went  down  to  the  street  with  hot  cheeks.  Better 
some  one's  kitchen  than  that!  She  felt  a  little  ill.  It 
must  be  hard  for  those  who  were  driven  by  the  Great 
Necessity.  It  was  raining  now,  and  in  a  few  moments,  and 
in  spite  of  her  umbrella,  she  was  damp  about  the  knees. 
She  could  do  no  more  that  day.  She  went  on  between 
the  looming  buildings,  passing,  on  her  way,  inclosed  in 
a  rope-surrounded  space,  a  jostling,  interweaving  crowd  of 
men  in  glistening  oilskins,  some  of  them  making  unin- 
telligible signs  to  watchers  at  the  windows  above.  Now 
and  then  a  man  dived  out  of  the  crowd  and  crossed  her 
path,  and  she  had  a  glimpse  under  down-drawn  hat  of 
a  face  in  which  the  vertical  line  between  the  brows  was 
either  incipient  or  strongly  marked,  an  expression  that 
narrowed  the  eyes  to  keenness. 

Myra  had  not  the  faintest  idea  of  what  the  scene  meant, 
and  in  spite  of  her  wet  ankles  had  paused  for  a  moment 
to  watch.  She  had  gone  on  for  half  a  block  in  bewilder- 
ment, until,  with  the  desire  to  learn  too  strong  in  her  for 
postponement,  she  had  stepped  under  the  huge  arched 
entrance  of  a  sky-scraper  and  asked  a  bent-shouldered 
old  man  who  was  running  a  mop  over  the  wet,  foot- 
marked  tiling  of  the  hall  what  it  meant.  He  had  looked 
at  her  with  the  filmed  gaze  of  the  aged,  eyes  rimmed  with 
red  lids. 

"Them?  Curb  brokers,"  he  said,  not  pausing  in  his 
monotonous  backward  and  forward  movements. 

Myra  went  on,  her  feet  a  little  more  leaden  with  de- 
pression. How  little  she  knew,  and  here  she*  was  at- 
tempting to  compete  with  those  whom  generations  of 
"business"  had  made  apt.  It  was  a  man's  "job"  she  was 
in  search  of.  She  realized  why  to  such  as  her  father  her 
assertion  that  she  meant  to  become  self-supporting  ap- 
peared comic. 

She  had  moved  about  listlessly  in  her  small  room  that 
the  rain-dimmed  window  made  unusually  forlorn,  taking 

202 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

off  her  wet  things  and  wrapping  herself  in  a  bed-gown. 
Her  throat  was  sore,  too  sore  to  swallow  with  comfort, 
so  she  had  a  raw  egg  and  tea,  and  after  putting  her  cold 
feet  in  hot  water  to  renew  circulation  she  bolstered  her- 
self on  the  couch,  watching  with  vague  eyes  the  lights 
of  Broadway  that  the  rivulets  chasing  each  other  down 
the  window-panes  made  wavering,  a  more  than  usually 
drunken  riot. 

If  she  could  find  no  opening  as  a  draftswoman,  would 
it  not  be  best  to  take  the  usual  six  months'  course  in 
stenography?  It  would  mean  eating  into  her  capital, 
but  it  would  give  her  a  chance.  She  had  always  been 
nimble  and  accurate  with  her  fingers.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
letter  from  her  mother  on  the  table,  begging  her  to  come 
home.  Her  father  was  in  California;  he  would  not  be 
there  to  object.  Poor  Mrs.  Milenberg's  frightened,  in- 
coherent letters  had  been  pitiful.  Myra  had  answered 
them  with  pages  of  love  and  reassurance.  She  had  writ- 
ten daily,  but  to-night  she  could  not  write;  she  was  too 
utterly  "down." 

And  for  the  first  time  she  was  lonely.  There  was  not 
a  soul  in  that  great  city  who  realized  that  she  was  there. 
In  three  weeks  she  had  not  exchanged  a  word  with  any 
one  to  whom  she  was  anything  but  a  negligible  quantity. 
She  was  an  atom  among  several  million  hurrying  atoms. 
Myra  had  thought  more  than  once  of  Janniss  and  Alyth ; 
but  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  had  withheld  her; 
the  sense  that  had  helped  to  make  her  socially  successful. 
Where  was  her  reliance  upon  her  own  ability?  Was  she 
at  the  outset  going  to  appeal  for  help  to  a  man?  Alyth 
might  find  something  for  her  to  do;  he  had  influence. 
But  she  shrank  from  the  appeal.  Better  to  go  her  own 
way  unaided. 

Before  Myra  made  her  couch  into  a  bed  for  the  night 
she  took  the  creased  and  scratched  list  that  had  been 
her  companion  for  some  days,  and  conned  over  the  offices 
14  203 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

she  had  not  visited.  There  were  several  as  yet  untried, 
enough  to  fill  a  morning ;  better  to  make  one  more  attempt 
before  looking  up  business  schools. 

Anton  Hosbrock's  was  the  last  name  on  the  list.  If 
Myra  had  known  anything  of  the  architects  of  the  city 
she  would  have  visited  his  office  among  the  first.  As 
it  was,  she  reached  it  at  about  noon,  encountering  at  the 
door  a  small,  black-eyed  girl  whom  she  afterward  dis- 
covered was  the  stenographer,  on  her  way  to  lunch. 
Chance  had  forestalled  the  office-boy;  for  some  reason  he 
was  not  visible,  and  Myra  rapidly  made  her  request. 

The  girl  looked  her  over  keenly,  then  with  a  demure 
expression  turned  about  and  led  her  through  the  recep- 
tion-room and  across  the  hall  to  the  door  of  a  large  room 
in  which  some  six  or  eight  men  were  at  work.  She 
pointed  out  a  tall,  gray  man.  "Ask  him,"  she  said,  and 
disappeared. 

"Mr.  Hosbrock  wants  a  draftsman,  yes,"  he  an- 
swered, sharply,  when  Myra  made  her  request.  His  em- 
phasis made  his  meaning  apparent  enough.  He  was  sal- 
low and  had  shaggy  brows;  he  looked  down  on  Myra 
with  a  scowl. 

In  spite  of  his  fierceness  Myra  liked  him.  She  smiled 
at  him.  As  usual  when  making  her  request  the  color 
came  in  her  cheeks,  making  her  lovely;  the  fact  that  she 
was  tired  and  her  eyes  heavy  made  her  flush  appear  the 
brighter.  The  very  short  young  man  at  the  nearest 
table  was  staring  widely  at  her.  Myra  was  conscious 
that  they  were  all  looking  at  her. 

"Possibly  if  I  could  talk  to  Mr.  Hosbrock,  and  he 
could  see  my  work,  he  might  consent  to  take  a  woman," 
Myra  persisted. 

"Not  in  this  office!"  he  snapped.  "A  man  can't  make 
his  bread  these  days,  with  babies  like  you  crowding  around 
and  gobbling  up  his  work.  Go  get  married,  child!"  and 
he  turned  his  back  on  her. 

204 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

There  was  a  general  titter  and  the  very  short  young 
man  laughed  outright.  It  brought  the  blood  still  more 
hotly  to  Myra's  face,  pricked  her  into  determination. 
This  was  the  only  place  where  she  had  discovered  a  va- 
cancy. But  she  could  not  talk  to  the  head  draftsman's 
back.  She  went  back  as  she  had  come,  and  found  the 
stenographer  playing  with  her  gloves  and  looking  amused. 

"Couldn't  I  see  Mr.  Hosbrock  for  just  a  moment?" 
Myra  begged. 

The  girl  looked  at  Myra  with  a  sudden  return  to 
gravity.  She  shook  her  head.  "That's  the  head  drafts- 
man was  talking.  Better  give  it  up." 

As  Myra  turned  away  a  twist  of  paper  was  thrust  into 
her  muff.  The  short  young  man  had  just  passed  her, 
carrying  a  blue-print  into  an  inner  room.  Myra  examined 
it  as  soon  as  she  left  the  office.  "Come  this  afternoon 
at  half  past  two;  Markham's  out  then.  Just  tell  the 
office-boy  that  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Hosbrock.  Say  you 
have  business  with  him.  See?  Don't  tell  the  boy  what." 

Perhaps  if  Myra  had  not  been  whirled  upward  in  the 
elevator  at  half  past  two  beside  a  tall,  broad-shouldered 
man  who  took  surreptitious  note  of  her  her  honesty 
would  have  earned  defeat  at  the  office-boy's  hands.  She 
followed  a  pace  behind  the  man  as  he  went  on  to  the 
office  door,  and  stood  hesitating  when  he  let  himself  in. 
He  looked  at  her  with  interest.  "Did  you  want  to  see 
Mr.  Hosbrock?"  he  asked,  pleasantly,  in  a  somewhat 
sonorous  voice. 

"Yes — on  business — "  Myra  said,  clinging  with  some 
embarrassment  to  her  instructions. 

"I  am  Mr.  Hosbrock.     Please  come  in." 

He  led  her  past  the  office-boy,  through  the  reception- 
room,  and  into  a  splendidly  lighted  room,  evidently  his 
private  office.  Myra  was  uncomfortable  under  his  smile 
and  the  pleased  alacrity  with  which  he  offered  her  a  chair. 
He  evidently  mistook  her  errand,  but  here  was  her  chance; 

205 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

she  had,  at  any  rate,  gained  an  audience.  Myra  collected 
all  her  bravery;  her  color  rose,  and  her  eyes  dilated,  as 
always  when  agitated. 

"Is  there  something  we  can  do  for  you?"  Mr.  Hosbrock 
asked.  Myra  noted  that  he  had  a  well-favored  face,  dis- 
tinguished by  a  white  mustache  and  goatee,  and  that  his 
utterance  was  measured  and  impressive. 

With  some  embarrassment  Myra  explained  her  er- 
rand. 

Anton  Hosbrock's  brows  lifted,  and  the  smile  left  his 
face.  He  surveyed  Myra  for  a  moment,  a  glance  that 
swept  her  from  hat  to  shoes,  lingering  a  little  on  the  fur 
that  muffled  her.  Then  his  face  became  expressionless. 
He  sat  down  at  his  desk,  looking  at  her  very  steadily — 
at  her  face  now.  "I  suppose  you  have  done  such  work 
before?" 

Myra  confessed  that  she  had  not.  "But  I  have  studied 
drawing  for  several  years.  I  am  apt  with  my  pencil. 
I  think  with  a  little  instruction  I  should  be  able  to  do 
the  simpler  things;  I  know  something  of  architectural 
drawing  already."  She  offered  her  roll  of  drawings. 

Hosbrock  looked  them  over  deliberately,  then  set 
them  aside  and  looked  again  at  Myra.  "You  have  been 
studying  art  here,  then?"  he  remarked.  "Is  your  home 
here?" 

"No." 

"But  you  are  not  a  stranger?" 

Myra  disliked  this  line  of  questioning,  but  she  had 
come  prepared.  "I  have  not  been  long  in  New  York," 
she  said,  reservedly.  "If  it  is  a  possible  thing  I  should 
like  now  to  get  a  position." 

He  threw  out  a  little  encouragement.  "You  draw 
well — er —  I  don't  think  you  gave  me  your  name. 
Did  you?" 

"Myra  St.  Claire—" 

"A  pretty  name,"  he  returned,  relaxing  into  a  smile, 

206 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

but  the  curve  of  Myra's  lips  was  so  perfunctory  that  he 
dropped  again  into  ponderous  gravity.  "Up  to  'a  week 
ago  business  has  been  very  dull,  but  I  have  had  some 
unexpected  Western  orders.  ...  I  might  possibly  be  able 
to  use  you." 

"I  would  try  to  give  satisfaction,"  Myra  said,  bright- 
ening. 

"  If  you  will  leave  your  address,  your  full  name,  please, 
my  stenographer  will  communicate  with  you.  Possibly 
you  can  be  reached  by  telephone.  Of  course  I  cannot 
tell  what  your  services  are  worth  until  I  have  tested  you; 
say  two  or  three  days  on  trial.  .  .  .  You  expect  that,  of 
course?  And  that  you  can't  be  well  paid  in  the  begin- 
ning?" 

"Yes."  Myra  wrote  her  hotel  address.  She  felt  cer- 
tain he  meant  to  make  inquiries;  she  was  experienced 
enough  to  know  that  his  air  of  indifference  covered  curi- 
osity. 

He  glanced  at  the  address  she  gave  him,  and  Myra 
saw  the  involuntary  lift  of  his  brows.  "Mrs.  St.  Claire 
— and — er — Hotel  Cyril.  .  .  .  Ah,  I  see;  you  are  married, 
then?  Is  Mr.  St.  Claire  with  you?" 

Myra  breathed  freely.  It  had  occurred  to  her  that 
possibly  he  suspected  who  she  was.  But  so  far  she  evi- 
dently had  not  that  complication  to  fear.  She  decided 
that  it  was  best  to  be  frank.  "No,"  she  said,  quietly, 
"I  am  living  alone." 

"Divorced?"  he  asked,  smilingly. 

Myra  grew  hot  to  her  finger-tips.  It  was  difficult  to 
meet  such  questioning.  "I  have  separated  from  my 
husband,"  she  answered,  briefly. 

Hosbrock  did  not  apologize.  "I  see,"  he  said,  "and 
so  you  are  looking  for  work.  ...  It  is  not  usual  for  me  to 
employ  a  woman  in  this  capacity,  but  as  I  said,  you  draw 
well.  In  any  case  my  stenographer  will  communicate 
with  you."  Myra's  fur  had  slipped  from  her  shoulders, 

207 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

and  he  lifted  it  and  put  it  about  her,  his  hand  touching 
her  hot  cheek  as  he  did  so.  It  was  done  deliberately, 
and  Myra  knew  it. 

She  went  out  with  mixed  feelings.  Anton  Hosbrock 
and  the  broad,  red-faced  man  were  not  so  very  unlike 
at  heart,  she  thought.  Happily  she  was  neither  ignorant 
nor  in  want.  She  had  no  intention  of  forgoing  a  posi- 
tion because  there  were  difficulties  in  store  for  her.  Mr. 
Anton  Hosbrock  might  meet  his  match!  .  .  .  Then  Myra 
cooled  to  the  hope  that  she  had  secured  work,  and  of 
the  kind  she  liked.  She  felt  she  could  make  herself  worthy 
of  her  hire. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  stenographer's  pert  voice  in- 
formed her  that  she  might  report  in  the  morning.  Myra 
thanked  her  and  turned  from  the  telephone  with  flushed 
cheeks.  She  spent  the  evening  overhauling  her  ward- 
robe and  writing  to  her  mother.  There  was  also  a  letter 
from  St.  Claire  that  she  must  answer.  It  contained  the 
usual  request  that  she  return  to  him,  couched  in  plati- 
tudes that  made  Myra's  lips  set  in  a  straight  line.  There 
was  also  a  check  inclosed  that  she  must  return;  St. 
Claire  was  keeping  well  on  the  side  of  the  law.  Myra 
wondered  how  many  times  she  had  repeated  her  reasons 
for  denying  him.  She  would  not  do  it  again,  she  decided. 
She  wrote  across  his  letter,  "It  is  useless.  Why  do  you 
write?"  and  returned  it,  together  with  the  check. 

To  her  mother  Myra  wrote  a  long  letter.  Among 
other  things  she  said:  "I  think  I  have  secured  work  as 
draftswoman  in  an  architect's  office.  It  is  very  -unlike- 
ly that  there  I  shall  meet  any  one  I  know.  Stop  grieving, 
please,  mother  dear,  and  give  me  encouragement  instead, 
for  I  need  it.  I  shall  have  my  trials,  of  course,  but  I  am 
not  in  the  least  daunted.  As  soon  as  I  know  whether  my 
position  is  to  be  permanent,  perhaps  you  will  send  some 
of  the  pretty  things  from  my  room  in  New  Rome.  I 
know  you  will  like  packing  a  box  for  me." 

208 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Myra  was  not  mysterious  about  her  occupation,  for 
she  was  very  certain  that  her  father  was  well  aware  of 
her  movements.  She  wondered  hotly  whether  he  would 
attempt  to  dislodge  her  from  her  hard-won  position. 
He  had  a  long  arm,  her  father. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

'T'HE  next  morning  Myra  was  taken  first  to  Hos- 
1  brock's  room.  He  was  business-like  in  his  greeting. 
"Ready  to  begin,  I  see.  .  .  .  Come  with  me  and  I'll  have 
Markham  start  you.  .  .  .  Just  leave  your  things  here.  I 
shall  want  to  see  you  before  you  go  this  evening." 

Myra  obeyed  him  in  silence.  She  was  too  tense  over 
her  new  venture  to  be  keenly  observant;  but  the  sensa- 
tion created  when  she  entered  the  drafting-room  with  her 
employer  was  too  marked  to  escape  even  her  preoccu- 
pation. As  they  passed  the  stenographer's  room  the 
click  of  her  machine  stopped  abruptly,  and  in  the  draft- 
ing-room every  man  stared  at  her,  the  head  draftsman 
with  a  brow  as  black  as  a  thunder-cloud.  The  men  were 
getting  to  their  tables  amid  the  usual  chatter  that  pre- 
ceded work,  an  exchange  of  chaff,  and  comments,  and 
with  those  who  were  garrulous  a  recital  of  the  night  be- 
fore. The  short  young  man's  somewhat  raucous  voice 
was  distinctly  audible.  At  sight  of  Myra  he  stopped 
dead,  choking  into  silent  laughter,  and  in  the  sudden 
stillness  Myra  was  given  a  table  somewhat  apart  from 
the  others. 

Hosbrock  turned  then  to  the  head  draftsman,  looking 
steadily  into  the  man's  angry  eyes  while  he  gave  his  in- 
structions. They  were  received  in  a  hot  silence  more 
expressive  than  words.  On  his  concluding  sentences 
Hosbrock's  voice  rose. 

"There  are  no  distinctions  in  this  office,  remember! 
Man  or  woman,  I  require  good  work,  and  I'll  not  tolerate 

210 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

unfairness."  He  whirled  from  his  head  draftsman's 
clouded  brow  to  the  short  young  man's  smiling  observa- 
tion of  Myra — "  or  foolishness!"  As  he  passed  before  his 
stenographer  his  mustache  lifted  in  a  slight  smile,  which 
she  returned  reservedly. 

He  left  a  chastened  silence  behind  him.  Myra  was 
burning  with  discomfort,  particularly  when  Markham,  by 
the  curtness  of  his  instructions,  plainly  showed  his  an- 
tagonism. He  set  her  to  tracing  full-size  details,  and 
scowled  the  more  heavily  when  he  discovered  that  she 
was  apt;  that  she  was  capable  really  of  doing  more  ad- 
vanced work.  His  criticisms,  therefore,  were  acid.  The 
short  young  man,  whose  name  Myra  learned  was  Brent, 
evinced  an  interest  in  her  that  was  as  embarrassing. 
When  Markham  left  the  room  for  a  few  moments  he 
came  to  Myra's  table. 

"I  knew  you'd  get  taken,"  he  whispered,  wisely,  then 
gave  Myra  some  suggestions  about  her  drawing  that 
proved  very  useful. 

She  received  them  in  a  guarded  manner,  but  that  did 
not  deter  Mr.  Brent.  Throughout  the  day,  every  time 
he  passed  her  table  he  had  a  whispered  word  for  her. 
From  the  glances  he  bent  on  her  Myra  decided  that  he 
was  highly  susceptible;  a  voluble,  conceited,  but  prob- 
ably good-hearted  youth,  highly  elated  by  this  covert 
display  of  an  acquaintance  that  the  other  fellows  must 
envy.  He  was  an  exceedingly  good  draftsman,  that 
Myra  discovered  at  once.  His  suggestions  were  most 
useful;  still  it  did  not  add  to  her  peace  of  mind  to  find 
that  Markham  noticed  his  conduct  with  an  access  of 
rage. 

The  truth  was  that  the  elderly  draftsman  had  a  violent 
grudge  against  the  new  order.  Woman  was  invading 
man's  battle-field,  and  not  only  did  she  fight  well,  but 
she  used  her  wiles  to  aid  her  in  the  struggle.  Such  an  ex- 
hibition of  her  power  as  he  was  forced  to  endure  just  now 

211 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

was  intolerable.  He  was  utterly  disgusted.  He  had 
worked  a  number  of  years  for  Anton  Hosbrock,  and  had 
certain  ideals  regarding  his  province.  He  had  been 
ready  to  choke  with  rage  the  evening  before  when  Hos- 
brock had  informed  him  that  he  meant  to  take  on  this 
girl.  It  was  the  first  time  his  employer  had  utilized  the 
drafting-room  to  further  an  affair  with  a  woman.  It 
wasn't  a  thing  that  was  done;  it  was  outrageous!  And 
of  course  Brent,  as  good  a  draftsman  as  ever  was,  but  in 
other  respects  an  ass,  would  fall  a  victim  to  such  a  face 
as  this  girl  possessed  and  be  ejected  by  Hosbrock.  She 
was  enough  to  demoralize  the  whole  place.  Damn  it — 
there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  room  who  didn't  radiate  self- 
consciousness!  He  was  seething  with  a  rage  and  disgust 
that  was  all  the  more  bitter  because  there  was  no  doubt 
that  the  girl  could  draw  unusually  well  and  was  going 
to  make  a  good  draftswoman,  and  his  innate  honesty 
would  compel  him  to  tell  Hosbrock  so. 

When  evening  came  Myra  was  exhausted.  She  had 
an  intolerable  backache,  for  she  had  stood  most  of  the 
day  and  had  worked  tensely,  so  much  so  that  as  the  day 
went  on  she  forgot  everything  but  what  she  was  doing. 

From  inexperience  she  was  slow  in  getting  her  materials 
put  away,  so  she  was  the  last  to  leave  the  office — last  but 
one.  The  door  of  Hosbrock's  room  was  open,  and  when 
she  hurried  in  she  found  him  there. 

"Well,  how  did  it  go?"  he  inquired. 

Myra  was  haggard  with  weariness  and  depression.  If 
the  head  draftsman's  report  of  her  had  been  as  scathing 
as  his  criticisms  of  her  mistakes,  she  was  not  destined  for 
a  second  day  of  trial. 

"It  is  difficult  for  me  to  tell.  I  felt  that  I  was  slow, 
but  in  that  respect  I  will  improve.  ...  I  am  afraid  I  did 
not  satisfy  Mr.  Markham." 

Hosbrock  unbent  in  a  smile.  "It  happens  to  be  Hos- 
brock, and  not  Markham,  whose  opinion  counts  here," 

212 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

he  said,  with  a  touch  of  the  pompous  that  did  not  sit 
ill  upon  him.  "Don't  let  my  head  draftsman  discompose 
you,  Mrs.  St.  Claire.  You  have  done  good  work  for  a 
beginner." 

Myra  grew  pink  with  relief.     "Thank  you." 

As  the  day  before,  he  took  her  fur  and  put  it  about  her 
lingeringly.  "It  is  too  bad  there  is  no  cross-town  car 
that  will  take  you  home,"  he  said,  solicitously.  "You 
are  tired  out;  you  are  not  used  to  standing."  Then,  as 
if  struck  by  a  happy  thought,  "My  automobile  is  here 
and  I  am  going  across  to  Broadway.  Why  not  let  me  drop 
you  at  your  hotel?" 

There  was  no  hesitation  in  Myra's  answer.  "You  are 
very  kind,  but  I  have  several  errands  before  I  can  start 
home." 

Hosbrock  did  not  urge.  He  was  a  man  of  much  ex- 
perience. He  considered  himself  a  successful  man  with 
women.  Myra  had  struck  him  as  entirely  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary, the  product  of  some  unusual  set  of  circumstances. 
His  inquiries  had  not  enlightened  him  particularly.  That 
Myra  was  very  apparently  a  lady,  and  without  acquaint- 
ances in  the  city,  was  all  he  had  been  able  to  learn  at  her 
address.  She  was  well-bred,  certainly,  and,  Hosbrock 
judged,  not  without  decided  experience  of  the  world. 
The  point  upon  which  he  felt  certainty  was  that  she  was 
in  financial  straits.  She  was  not  the  first  woman  who  had 
come  to  New  York  with  a  trunkful  of  clothes  and  had 
her  income  fail  her.  She  was  evidently  no  weakling, 
however.  Anton  Hosbrock  had  tested  most  situations; 
here  was  something  temptingly  out  of  the  ordinary.  And 
the  entertaining  thing  was  that  she  had  real  aptitude  for 
just  the  kind  of  work  he  had  to  give  her.  The  offer  of 
his  automobile  was  largely  tentative. 

And  Myra  knew  that  it  was.  She  understood  Anton 
Hosbrock  very  well — far  better  than  he  understood  her. 
He  had  a  little  of  St.  Claire's  unalterable  conception  of 

213 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

himself  as  a  conqueror  of  women.  It  was  a  conviction 
that  appeared  to  be  deeply  implanted  in  the  masculine 
breast,  Myra  reflected.  Doubtless  a  necessary  attribute 
so  long  as  the  human  male  remained  a  predatory  animal. 

Too  weary  to  do  anything  but  lie  on  her  couch  and 
look  out  at  the  nightly  show,  Myra  pondered  her  situ- 
ation. She  meant  to  stay  at  Hosbrock's,  but  to  do  so 
she  must  walk  carefully.  The  first  requisite  was  that  she 
prove  her  capability.  The  second  that  she  dominate 
the  situation.  To  young  Brent  Myra  gave  only  a  passing 
thought.  The  stenographer,  Miss  Fay,  was  a  clever 
little  thing.  Markham  Myra  liked;  he  was  the  only 
person  in  the  office  she  did  like.  He  was  sincere,  and 
fairly  intelligent.  As  she  proved  herself,  so  would  she 
be  regarded  by  him;  his  prejudice  would  wear  off.  The 
other  men  did  not  count. 

Myra  thought  long  of  her  employer.  He  had  aroused 
her  antagonism,  the  same  cool  judgment  that  had  con- 
demned St.  Claire.  He  had  taken  her  into  his  office  for 
other  reasons  than  her  efficiency.  She  had  aroused  his 
curiosity;  he  wanted  to  investigate  her,  and  for  his  bene- 
fit. Myra  had  learned  that  men  are  rarely  very  intuitive. 
Hosbrock  had  no  very  clear  impression  of  her;  he  was 
relying  on  her  financial  inability,  just  as  her  father  and 
St.  Claire  were.  It  was  deep-rooted,  that  sense  of  superi- 
ority— man,  the  breadwinner,  over  woman,  the  bread- 
consumer.  It  deprived  her  of  pleasure  in  her  accomplish- 
ment, this  feeling  that  she  had  been  favored  because  of 
the  universal  attraction  that  had  beneath  it  the  usual 
sex-antagonism.  Was  it  necessary,  this  continual  sex- 
battle?  Myra  turned  her  face  to  the  pillow;  she  was 
weary  and  disillusioned  enough  to  weep. 

She  carried  a  tranquil  face  to  the  office  the  next  morning, 
however.  To  say  that  Myra  worked  absorbedly  that  day 
is  scarcely  doing  her  justice.  Nothing  more  utterly  intent 
on  accomplishment  had  ever  entered  the  place.  She  was 

214 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

not  nervous  as  on  the  first  day.  Markham's  curtness  made 
no  impression  whatever  on  her ;  as  a  personality,  apparent- 
ly, he  did  not  exist.  Her  effort  was  simply  to  grasp  and  then 
carry  out  his  instructions.  He  studied  her  with  curiosity 
as  the  day  passed,  forgetting  to  scowl.  Brent's  attentions 
were  so  absently  received  that  his  feelings  were  hurt. 
He  sighed  frequently  over  his  work,  then  cleared  his 
throat  defiantly.  During  the  latter  part  of  the  day  he 
refused  to  look  at  his  proteg6e.  Miss  Fay,  whose  desk 
commanded  a  view  of  the  drafting-room,  glanced  fre- 
quently and  amusedly  in  Myra's  direction.  The  half- 
dozen  draftsmen  lost  their  self-consciousness;  she  was 
"some  class,"  that  girl,  whoever  she  might  be.  She 
wasted  no  glances  on  them,  and  worked  like  a  house 
afire. 

Myra  had  come  early  that  second  morning  purposely 
to  have  a  word  with  the  little  stenographer.  "Where 
do  you  keep  your  wraps,  Miss  Fay?"  she  inquired,  pleas- 
antly. "May  I  put  my  things  with  yours?" 

Miss  Fay  indicated  a  corner  cupboard.  "Sure,"  she 
said,  and  added,  demurely,  "They  mayn't  be  so  safe  as 
in  Mr.  Hosbrock's  room,  though." 

Myra  was  not  to  be  drawn.  "What  is  safe  enough  for 
you  will  be  safe  enough  for  me,"  she  answered,  practically. 

Then  she  had  gone  to  her  task  and  become  oblivious 
to  every  one,  even  to  Mr.  Hosbrock  when  he  came  in. 
She  did  not  see  him  until  he  stopped  at  her  table.  He 
examined  her  work,  spending  some  time  over  it. 

"I  believe  you  can  do  detailing  next  week,"  he  said, 
then.  "Come  to  my  room  for  a  moment  before  you 
leave  this  evening."  It  was  his  announcement  to  the 
office  that  Myra  was  permanently  engaged. 

On  his  departure  Brent  heaved  so  profound  a  sigh  that 
it  amounted  to  a  groan.  Markham,  whose  rage  had 
reached  the  explosive  point,  turned  on  him  savagely. 

"If  you  must  make  such  ridiculous  noises,  why  don't 

215 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

you  go  into  the  hall  to  do  it?  Whenever  there's  anything 
feminine  around  you  snort  and  puff  and  amble  like  a 
love-sick  rhinoceros!" 

Brent  descended  from  his  stool  in  high  dudgeon.  "I'm 
not  here  to  be  insulted!"  he  declared,  with  heat.  "I 
have  passed  over  several  such  remarks  of  yours,  Mr. 
Markham,  but  this  last  is  too  much.  You'll  answer  to 
me  for  this,  sir!  I  demand  an  apology!"  He  was  very 
red  in  the  face,  very  short,  almost  a  dwarf  beside  Mark- 
ham's  six  feet,  very  grandiose,  and,  as  Markham  had  said, 
ridiculous.  The  others  were  in  subdued  glee  over  the 
scene — little  Brent  was  such  an  egregious  bore!  After 
one  swift  glance  Myra  was  oblivious. 

Markham  had  his  comment.  "For  all  the  world  like 
a  bunch  of  stags  and  one  deer!"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 
His  irritation  had  vanished.  He  looked  amusedly  at  the 
little  man  from  beneath  his  shaggy  brows.  "All  right, 
Brent,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry.  I  apologize.  You're  so  sus- 
ceptible to  colds,  and  people  with  colds  get  on  my  nerves. 
You  ask  that  very  pretty  girl  I  saw  you  with  at  the  theater 
what  to  do  for  it.  She  looked  as  if  she  thought  a  lot  of 
you,  Brent.  .  .  .  To  my  mind  that's  the  sort  of  thing  a 
woman's  meant  for:  to  look  after  a  man  and  children 
and  a  home — not  trying  to  elbow  him  in  business.  As 
for  the  kind  that  uses  her  face  to  get  her  a  place — well, 
she  has  herself  to  blame  if  she  gets  a  tumble."  Mark- 
ham  knew  that  speech  might  lose  him  his  place,  but 
for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  refrain. 

Brent  was  mollified.  He  was,  as  Markham  knew,  im- 
pervious to  sarcasm.  In  his  own  estimation  he  was  de- 
cidedly a  "lady-killer."  It  was  just  as  well  his  ungrate- 
ful protegee  should  realize  that  he  went  to  the  theater 
with  pretty  girls  who  looked  adoringly  at  him. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  mounting  his  stool  with  dignity. 
"We  will  not  refer  to  the  matter  again."  And  the  office 
settled  into  quiet.  For  one  whole  hour  Brent  said  not 

216 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

a  word — an  extraordinary  thing  for  him,  Myra  afterward 
learned. 

Hosbrock  was  succinct  that  evening.  Myra  found 
herself  engaged  at  a  salary  that  amounted  to  fifteen  dol- 
lars a  month  less  than  Hosbrock  had  ever  paid  any  man 
in  his  office,  the  percentage,  Myra  discovered,  she  must 
pay  for  being  a  woman.  But  she  had  work,  that  was  the 
important  thing,  and  she  applied  herself  to  it  with  such 
determination  that  even  Brent,  who  rarely  thought  for 
three  consecutive  minutes  of  anybody  but  himself,  was 
impressed.  Markham  ceased  his  gibes,  as  Myra  had 
known  he  would.  She  had  neither  glances  nor  smiles 
for  any  one  in  the  office,  least  of  all  for  her  employer. 
And  Markham  decided  that  it  was  not  an  assumed  in- 
difference. But  the  crucial  test  was  that  after  a  few 
days'  experience  she  did  excellent  work.  He  could  find 
no  flaws  in  it.  In  time  he  felt  he  might  even  take  a  kind- 
ly view  of  her. 

Miss  Fay  was  the  only  person  in  the  office  with  whom 
Myra  really  conversed.  They  frequently  helped  each 
other  on  with  their  wraps.  It  was  she  who  characterized 
their  employer. 

"  Gay  on  the  sly — and  chesty,"  she  said,  nodding  wisely. 
"Ever  notice  how  many  of  them  are  like  that  when  they've 
married  for  money?  His  wife's  rich.  .  .  .  I've  been  work- 
ing in  offices  for  seven  years,  and  I've  been  through  the 
mill — known  dozens  like  him,  and  dozens  of  girls  who 
work  men  like  him.  I've  learned  a  thing  or  two,  and 
none  of  it  for  mine!  ...  I'm  engaged  now  to  a  fellow  who 
doesn't  make  much  more  than  I  do,  and  two  can't  marry 
on  that.  What's  the  good  of  our  waiting  on  and  on? 
We're  pretty  well  suited.  I'm  proposing  going  into  part- 
nership, marrying,  and  I  work  and  he  work;  then  we  can 
both  have  a  home.  .  .  .  But,  you  know,  I'm  having  my  own 
time  making  him  see  it  that  way !  Funny  how  men  think 
the  thing  for  them  to  do  is  to  take  you  and  house  you, 

217 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

and  feed  you,  and  put  clothes  on  you,  instead  of  helping 
you  to  be  independent.  Still,  that's  what  most  girls  are 
after — getting  themselves  taken  care  of — so  one  can't 
blame  the  men."  Miss  Fay  nodded  emphatically.  "I 
know  one  thing,  though.  The  girls  and  the  fellows  '11 
have  to  come  to  a  different  understanding  if  there's  much 
marrying  going  to  be  done.  The  town's  running  over  with 
men  who  can't  marry  unless  the  girls  will  go  halves.  Me 
and  my  boy  we're  in  love  with  each  other,  all  right, 
though,  and  I'll  bring  him  around  to  my  way  of  thinking 
by  and  by." 

The  little  stenographer  interested  Myra;  so  did  Mark- 
ham,  and  to  a  certain  extent  her  employer.  She  had 
played  hostess  to  many  a  man  like  Anton  Hosbrock;  she 
was  simply  seeing  him  from  another  angle.  And  Myra 
had  made  a  discovery  about  herself.  She  liked  the  con- 
tact with  the  business  world.  She  understood  much  bet- 
ter the  fascination  it  had  for  men  like  her  father  and  St. 
Claire.  There  was  a  cutthroat  activity  about  the  money- 
battle  that  appealed  to  the  piratic  in  man.  Had  women 
the  same  instinct,  she  wondered,  only  dormant  because 
of  disuse? 

But  she  had  a  more  sympathetic  understanding  of 
the  passion  to  accomplish  as  she  had  seen  it  in  Alyth  and 
Janniss,  the  pure  delight  in  accomplishment  for  accom- 
plishment's sake.  She  was  beginning  to  love  her  work. 
But  the  evenings  were  dreary.  Better  than  the  wretched 
evenings  at  Woodmansie  Place,  but  dreary.  After  a 
few  disagreeable  experiences  she  decided  to  keep  off  the 
street;  there  could  be  no  sight-seeing  for  her  after  dark. 
Then  she  was  tempted  to  call  up  either  Janniss  or  Alyth. 
She  had  the  instinctive  knowledge  that  either  would 
come  quickly.  But  a  certain  other  instinct  restrained 
her.  She  did  not  feel  sure  enough  of  her  position;  she 
was  new  to  independence.  She  did  not  feel  that  she  could 
say  with  sufficient  assurance,  "See,  here  am  I  accomplish- 

218 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

ing  as  you  are,  a  working-woman  as  you  are  working-men, 
a  comrade,"  not  an  adorable  woman  on  canvas,  as  Janniss 
had  always  visioned  her,  or  a  restless,  unhappy  woman,  as 
she  had  been  revealed  to  Alyth.  To  Janniss  she  was  a 
very  feminine  vision  of  the  old  order,  and  to  Alyth  the 
indeterminate  woman  of  the  new  order.  She  was  not 
quite  ready  to  explain  herself. 

Her  school  friends  Myra  did  not  even  consider.  There 
was  not  one  of  them  who  would  understand.  There  was 
no  woman  whom  she  had  known  to  whom  she  felt  drawn. 
Though  Myra  did  not  define  it,  it  was  masculine  com- 
panionship she  craved,  the  hunger  of  the  woman  for  the 
man,  and  its  prompting  the  passion  that  had  drawn  Dick 
to  her  breast  and  whispered  in  his  ear  her  desire.  She 
regarded  women  a  little  vaguely,  with  kindliness  and 
with  sympathy,  but  not  so  clearly  as  she  visioned  men. 
There  was  a  need  in  her  for  the  one  and  not  for  the 
other. 

Still  she  held  back  from  the  telephone,  for  there  was 
the  inevitable  struggle  with  her  father  pending.  There 
was  no  telling  how  long  she  would  have  a  roof  over  her 
head.  He  might  force  her  to  move  on.  Myra  felt  by  no 
means  secure,  and  still  less  so  when  one  day  Hosbrock 
made  a  change  that  daunted  her.  The  office  was  working 
upon  plans  for  residences  to  be  built  in  a  subdivision 
near  Chicago.  Hosbrock  seemed  to  regard  this  order 
as  very  important,  Myra  guessed  because  much  future 
work  depended  upon  the  way  he  handled  it.  There  was 
much  detailing  to  be  done  under  his  supervision,  he  told 
the  office,  and  for  convenience'  sake  he  wanted  her  for 
a  day  or  two  to  work  in  his  room. 

Myra  acquiesced  without  comment,  leaving  the  sur- 
charged atmosphere  of  the  drafting-room  with  head  high 
and  hot  cheeks.  She  had  not  expected  such  a  move  as 
this.  When  Hosbrock  followed  her  she  was  still  flushed. 
She  received  his  instructions  attentively,  however,  and 
15  2I9 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

set  to  work,  quite  oblivious  of  the  meaningful  look  he 
gave  her. 

It  was  evident,  as  the  day  passed,  that  they  were  to 
stand  side  by  side  frequently,  her  shoulder  touching  his 
breast  when  he  examined  her  work.  It  was  plain  that 
to  avoid  the  intimacy  of  touch  and  glance  was  going  to 
be  almost  impossible.  She  would  have  to  work  under  a 
double  strain — keep  a  man  who  was  determined  to  en- 
croach at  a  distance,  and  at  the  same  time  do  good  work. 

Except  for  the  fire  that  edged  her  lowered  lashes,  Myra 
showed  no  sign  of  her  hot  irritation.  Hosbrock  prob- 
ably sensed  her  anger;  at  any  rate,  he  kept  his  distance. 
Miss  Fay's  knowing  look  when  Myra  went  in  for  her 
wraps  did  not  improve  Myra's  temper,  and  the  cool 
glance  Markham  bestowed  upon  her  hurt.  If  he  had 
scowled  at  her  Myra  would  have  cared  far  less. 

She  carried  her  perturbation  home  with  her.  She  was 
both  disgusted  and  angry.  The  situation  was  hateful. 
Then,  as  usual  with  her,  anger  settled  into  stubborn  re- 
sistance. Because  Hosbrock  took  a  mistaken  view,  was 
she  to  abandon  a  position  that  she  could  fill  capably? 
Given  time,  she  could  do  just  as  good  work  as  Brent. 
It  had  occurred  to  Myra  that  there  was  an  opening  for 
her  in  interior  decoration.  Hosbrock  usually  turned  that 
part  of  his  work  over  to  some  firm  of  decorators,  but 
there  was  a  certain  amount  he  attempted  himself.  .  .  . 
She  would  not  be  driven  from  it. 

But  she  could  not  risk  plain  speech,  unless  too  much 
provocation  should  be  given  her.  Her  power  of  resist- 
ance was  quite  as  strong  as  his  capacity  for  encroach- 
ment. And  as  the  days  passed  she  did  hold  her  own. 
She  was  utterly  unresponsive.  She  gave  only  polite 
attention  when  Hosbrock  remarked  on  the  muscular  de- 
velopment of  his  arms,  the  breadth  of  his  chest,  and  the 
width  of  his  shoulders. 

"I  have  always  been  an  athlete,"  he  told  her.  "Gray 

220 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

hairs  really  have  nothing  to  do  with  age,  you  know.  .  .  . 
How  old  do  you  suppose  I  am?" 

He  had  much  to  say  of  Anton  Hosbrock.  Myra  was 
sorely  tempted  to  play  upon  his  conceit — it  would  have 
been  so  easy.  But  she  refrained. 

Before  the  week  was  out  he  had  told  her  that  he  was 
unhappily  married.  Myra  had  just  freed  herself  from 
his  sudden  embrace,  and  with  a  decision  that  made  him 
recoil.  She  stood  backed  against  the  table,  looking  at 
him.  What  a  fool  he  was!  She  longed  to  tell  him  so  in 
a  brief  sentence.  As  it  was  her  wide  look  made  her  ap- 
pear little  else  than  startled,  so  he  tried  another  method. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  in  a  depressed  way.  He  dropped 
into  his  desk-chair  with  a  somewhat  theatrical  abandon, 
and  supported  his  well-shaped  head  in  his  hand.  "You 
are  such  a  tremendously  attractive  woman.  There  is 
so  much  warmth  and  intelligence  about  you  that  I  have 
been  irresistibly  drawn.  You  are  wonderful.  From  the 
first  moment  I  looked  into  your  eyes  I  have  been  your 
captive.  .  .  .  You  don't  understand,  of  course.  I  have 
made  my  struggle,  but  I  have  been  forced  into  a  restrained 
existence.  ...  To  tell  the  truth,  my  wife  and  I — we  are 
only  so  in  name;  there  is  no  sympathy  between  us. 
Naturally,  I  crave  sympathy.  You  possibly  have  suf- 
fered much  as  I  have — you  must  understand." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do,"  Myra  said,  evenly.  "It  is  hard 
sometimes  to  adjust  life  as  we  should  like — to  retain  a 
fortune,  for  instance,  and  indulge  in  'sympathy'  at  the 
same  time.  To  serve  both  God  and  Mammon  success- 
fully appears  to  be  a  feat  as  difficult  of  accomplishment 
in  marriage  as  in  business." 

Anton  Hosbrock  was  by  no  means  a  stupid  man.  In 
his  profession  he  was  unusually  intelligent,  original  in  his 
conceptions,  and  with  feeling  for  the  beautiful.  But  his 
opinion  of  women  was  simply  of  the  current,  hand-me- 
down  variety.  Myra  had  pricked  him  somewhat  sharply. 

221 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  studied  her  alertly  enough  now  from  beneath  his  tragi- 
cally clasped  brow The  little  devil !  She  was  as  shrewd 

and  as  clever  as  they  were  made — that  was  evident !  She 
made  him  appear  a  fool,  and  he  flushed  much  more  hotly 
from  injured  conceit  than  he  had  from  emotion. 

He  rose.  "I  could  explain,  but  what  is  the  use?"  he 
said,  gravely.  "  I  see  that  I  do  not  appeal  to  you.  I  had 
hoped  that  we  might  be  friends.  You  certainly  have  at- 
tracted me  greatly."  He  felt  that  he  was  carrying  the 
matter  off  fairly  well — saving  his  dignity.  Inwardly  he 
was  thoroughly  angry;  her  independence  needed  chasten- 
ing, and  perhaps  she  would  get  it!  She  was  hard  up  and 
anxious  to  keep  her  place. 

Myra  knew  that  he  was  angry.  As  soon  as  an  excuse 
could  be  found  she  would  probably  be  discharged.  She 
would  be  made  to  pay  for  her  sarcasm.  "  I  have  certainly 
wished  to  please  you — as  an  employer,"  she  answered, 
pacifically.  "  I  want  to  do  good  work." 

"I  don't  happen  to  be  the  man,  that's  all,"  he  returned, 
coldly. 

Myra  made  no  answer,  and  a  heavy  silence  settled  upon 
them.  It  was  not  broken  until  Hosbrock  gave  her  some 
curt  instructions.  He  had  adopted  quite  another  manner, 
that  Myra  knew  would  also  have  its  trials  for  her.  And 
it  did  not  lighten  her  spirits  when  accidentally  she  dis- 
covered that  the  very  plans  upon  which  she  was  working 
were  to  be  submitted  to  her  father.  The  order  was  from 
him.  What  a  complication !  He  had  been  delayed  in  San 
Francisco,  but  he  might  appe*ar  any  day  now.  She  seemed 
to  be  encompassed  by  more  than  her  share  of  difficulties. 

Myra  went  home  that  night  in  a  state  of  disgust.  And 
there  was  nothing  there  to  enliven  her  except  the  dizzy 
show  of  Broadway.  There  recurred  to  her  then  the  re- 
mark of  the  woman  who  had  knelt  to  pin  her  dress :  ' '  Take 
us  as  a  whole,  we  women  who  get  out  and  do  for  ourselves, 
we're  a  lonely  lot.  There  is  no  provision  for  us  yet." 


CHAPTER  XX 

IT  became  very  evident  to  Myra  that  whether  dis- 
charged or  not,  at  the  end  of  the  month  she  would  have 
to  go,  for  Hosbrock  was  making  himself  unendurable.  He 
was  curt,  sharp  in  his  demands  for  rapid  work,  and  at  other 
times  heavily  silent.  Had  Myra  felt  less  contempt  for 
the  childish  traits  he  displayed  she  would  have  been  en- 
raged. As  it  was  she  remained  unmoved.  An  actual 
insult  she  would  resent,  and  promptly,  but  apparently 
Hosbrock  meant  only  to  impress  upon  her  the  loss  of  his 
favor.  He  took  two  days  in  which  to  do  it,  and  then, 
to  her  great  relief,  transferred  her  to  the  drafting-room, 
where  she  was  curiously  eyed.  Whatever  else  the  group 
of  men  had  thought,  they  now  very  certainly  considered 
her  as  good  as  discharged. 

It  lacked  but  a  few  days  of  the  end  of  the  month,  when 
she  was  certain  to  be  told  to  go,  probably  by  a  line  in- 
closed in  the  envelope  that  would  contain  her  month's 
salary.  Hosbrock  had  ceased  to  speak  to  her.  He  was 
oblivious  of  her  except  when  she  brought  work  to  him, 
and  then  he  declined  to  look  at  her.  Because  she  bore 
with  him  he  probably  thought  her  penniless,  and  that  at 
any  moment  she  might  break  down  and  sue  for  favor. 
That  even  if  she  did  hold  out  for  those  three  days,  when 
actually  discharged  she  would  yield.  Myra  set  her  teeth 
and  worked  on;  she  did  not  mean  to  jeopardize  her 
month's  salary.  The  hard  thing  was  that  she  would 
have  to  face  her  father  with  the  sense  of  failure  eating 
away  at  her  courage. 

223 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

On  the  last  day  of  the  month  she  waited  tensely  for  the 
hour  of  check  -  distribution.  Hosbrock  had  his  own 
methods:  at  noon  he  entered  the  drafting-room  and  laid 
an  envelope  on  every  table — but  her  own.  He  passed  her 
by  silently,  leaving  her  to  surprise  and  accelerated  heart- 
beats. Did  he  mean  to  call  her  into  his  room  later  on 
and  give  himself  the  satisfaction  of  dismissing  her  orally? 
.  .  .  But  in  a  few  moments  he  left  the  office,  and  did  not 
return  that  day. 

Myra  went  home  nonplussed,  and  it  was  only  after 
considerable  thought  that  the  explanation  occurred  to 
her.  He  meant  to  give  her  a  night  of  anxiety,  worry  her 
into  seeking  an  interview  humbled  in  spirit.  The  mean- 
ness of  the  device  aroused  Myra.  Suppose  she  were 
penniless — dependent  on  the  pay  of  one  week  to  meet  the 
expenses  of  the  next,  like  most  of  the  girls  who  morning 
and  evening  streamed  by  her  ?  And  as  ignorant  as  many  ? 
It  would  worry  such  a  girl  terribly. . . .  He  intended  to  pay 
her,  of  course,  but  in  his  own  time  and  way. 

Myra  sat  long  that  night,  thinking,  keenly  conscious  of 
the  city's  traffic  that  even  midnight  did  not  still.  She 
was  being  taught  that  it  was  a  hand-to-hand  conflict  out 
there,  with  all  sorts  of  weapons,  and  no  quarter  given. 
And  a  woman  had  somewhat  the  worst  of  it.  ...  If  only 
she  could  hold  her  position  in  spite  of  Hosbrock — at  any 
rate  until  a  higher  .power,  her  father,  appeared.  That  was 
a  struggle  always  looming  above  her. 

And  yet  Myra  hated  to  use  the  weapon  that  lay  at  her 
hand;  she  had  so  great  an  advantage  over  the  down-in- 
the-heel  girls  who  passed  her  daily  that  it  seemed  an  in- 
excusable unfairness.  Whenever  a  group  of  garment- 
workers  passed  her  Myra  remembered  that  in  the  string 
of  manufactories  that  Milenberg  controlled  were  hundreds 
of  girls,  and  that  the  bill  St.  Claire  was  lobbying  through 
the  legislature  was  aimed  to  protect  a  monopoly.  Her 
father  was  using  his  money  to  fight  the  demands  of  labor. 

224 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

She  had  cast  in  her  lot  with  those  who  toiled,  and  was 
being  served  their  portion,  and  driven  out  of  employment 
she  would  not  be!  Her  fighting  blood  was  up.  She  final- 
ly penned  the  letter  her  ingenuity  evolved. 

The  next  morning  Myra  went,  as  usual,  to  her  table  in 
the  drafting-room.  She  had  received  no  discharge;  she 
would  give  Mr.  Hosbrock  the  morning  in  which  to  con- 
jecture. Myra  was  aware  that  when  he  came  in  he 
paused  to  eye  her  curiously.  He  was  in  and  out  of  the 
room  all  morning.  She  went  on  with  her  work  as  usual. 
At  lunch-time  she  placed  her  letter  on  his  desk,  reading 
it  over  again  before  she  did  so: 

MR.  ANTON  HOSBROCK: 

DEAR  SIR, — I  regret  the  necessity  of  reminding  you  that  my 
month's  salary  is  overdue.  This  neglect  on  your  part  must  be 
owing  to  some  explainable  mistake,  since  you  have  repeatedly 
told  me  that  you  were  satisfied  with  my  work,  and  have  given 
proof  of  the  fact  by  retaining  me  in  your  employ.  If  you  will 
kindly  rectify  your  oversight,  you  will  oblige, 
Yours  respectfully, 

MYRA  ST.  CLAIRE. 

There  is  a  circumstance  I  do  not  like  to  mention,  as  I  have 
taken  a  certain  pride  in  showing  my  father  that  I  could  pro- 
vide for  myself  without  his  assistance.  I  wanted  to  discover 
what  were  the  opportunities  for  a  woman  in  an  architect's  office. 
I  have  learned  much  that  is  interesting.  I  suppose  the  more 
usual  mode  of  procedure  would  have  been  to  have  informed 
you  when  I  first  came  that  James  Milenberg,  of  Chicago,  is  my 
father.  He  has,  as  you  know,  been  detained  in  California  longer 
than  he  intended,  but  I  expect  now,  any  day,  to  see  him. 

M.  ST.  C. 

Striking  from  behind  her  father's  money.  It  was  that 
fact  that  deprived  Myra  of  any  feeling  of  satisfaction. 
The  postscript,  though  an  irresistible  concession  to  her 
sense  of  humor,  made  her  feel  small.  Still,  it  was  the 

225 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

mention  of  her  father  that  would  prevent  her  discharge, 
and  she  had  thrown  aside  certain  compunctions.  She 
must  use  what  weapons  she  possessed.  She  was  in  to  win. 
After  lunch  Myra  saw  Hosbrock  pass  through  the  hall 
on  the  way  to  his  room.  She  had  calculated  that  he 
would  take  some  time  for  consideration.  But  not  so. 
Even  the  curses  he  probably  bestowed  on  her  must  have 
been  brief,  for  in  less  than  an  hour's  time  he  sent  her  in 
a  note.  He  wrote: 

DEAR  MRS.  ST.  CLAIRE, — Thank  you  for  calling  my  attention 
to  an  inexcusable  oversight.  It  is  not  the  only  thing  for  which 
I  shall  always  feel  regret.  Please  find  inclosed  check  for  a 
month's  salary. 

Your  work  has  been  most  satisfactory,  and  in  my  opinion 
shows  great  promise.  It  has  long  been  my  wish  to  extend  my 
facilities  for  interior  decoration.  I  think  I  once  remarked  that 
that  was  my  wish.  I  have  noticed  a  natural  aptitude  on  your 
part  for  that  line  of  work.  It  would  be  an  opening  for  you  at  a 
better  salary,  or,  if  you  prefer  to  connect  yourself  with  some  firm 
that  makes  interior  decoration  a  specialty,  I  think  I  may  be  of 
assistance.  I  shall  be  glad  to  serve  you  in  any  way.  It  would 
give  me  pleasure  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  your  father. 
Yours  very  sincerely, 

ANTON  HOSBROCK. 

Myra  felt  no  elation.  She  had  won  because  she  pos- 
sessed an  advantage.  It  was  plain  that  unless,  when 
necessary,  she  fought,  and  skilfully,  she  could  not  climb 
the  ladder  of  success.  That  aspect  of  the  life  she  had 
chosen  was  distasteful;  as  distasteful  as  social  competi- 
tion had  been.  But  there  was  the  other — the  joy  of  ac- 
complishment, the  eagerness  to  excel,  to  perfect.  It  was 
that  that  exhilarated.  The  greatest  satisfaction  Myra 
felt  when  she  put  away  the  interior  upon  which  she  was 
working  was  that  she  did  not  have  to  part  with  it. 

Myra  went  home  that  evening  tired,  but  not  unhappy. 
When  she  entered  the  hotel  she  was  given  a  distinct  sur- 

226 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

prise.  A  bell-boy  directed  her  attention  to  a  waiting 
visitor.  Seated  on  the  edge  of  one  of  the  huge  gilt- 
backed  chairs  that  graced  the  hotel  corridor,  rigidly  up- 
right, was  a  little  figure  incased  in  velvet  and  topped  by 
a  hat  as  gay  as  the  crest  of  a  bright-plumaged  bird.  Her 
silver-fox-lined  automobile  coat  had  slipped  from  her 
shoulders  and  hung  to  the  floor — Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice. 

Through  her  lorgnette  the  little  lady  was  taking  note 
of  the  somewhat  depressing  surroundings — the  scanty 
office,  the  ugly  marble,  the  pasty-faced,  unstarched-look- 
ing bell-boys.  When  Myra  came  in  she  was  watching  a 
group  of  theater  men  and  women  who  were  making  their 
way  to  the  elevator.  Leaning  against  the  office  counter 
was  a  man  in  pronounced  waistcoat  and  spats,  an  open- 
gazing,  wine-reddened  man,  the  cheaper  type  of  the  man- 
about-town.  He  had  straightened  when  Myra  entered, 
watchful  of  her  movements,  with,  as  Myra  knew,  the  in- 
tention of  ascending  in  the  same  elevator  with  herself. 
He  was  on  her  floor,  and  for  a  week  had  timed  his  even- 
ing ascensions  to  correspond  with  her  own — possibly  for 
the  pleasure  of  observing  her  lowered  lashes  and  slightly 
compressed  lips. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  turned  her  lorgnette  upon 
him  next,  then,  following  his  gaze,  she  came  upon  Myra, 
who  stood  arrested. 

"Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice!"  she  said,  coming  forward. 

Her  visitor  rose  with  an  alacrity  that  youth  might  have 
envied.  "At  last!"  she  exclaimed  in  honest  English. 
"  My  dear,  remove  me  quickly  to  some  place  where  I  can 
explode  in  safety!  I  am  like  to  die  of  an  apoplexy!" 

Myra  flushed,  but  she  also  laughed.  "Come  up  with 
me  to  my  room;  there  you  can  say  what  you  please." 

In  the  elevator  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  maintained  an 
expressive  silence,  possibly  because  the  man  with  the 
loud  waistcoat  had  also  entered.  But  when  Myra's  door 
had  closed  on  them  her  tongue  was  loosed. 

227 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Myra  St.  Claire,  what  are  you  doing  here?  ...  It  was 
Adele  who  let  it  out.  I  came  in  this  morning  on  the 
Imperator.  I've  been  everywhere  in  Europe  and  not  in 
Paris  this  summer,  so  I  hadn't  even  heard  of  your  illness. 
Adele  is  in  New  York,  and  evidently  was  on  the  watch 
for  me — for  she  is  a  bit  afraid  of  me  and  wanted  to 
say  a  good  word  for  herself  before  some  enemy  forestalled 
her — so  I  had  no  more  than  gotten  the  pajamas  off  the 
chairs  than  she  telephoned.  I  wanted  her  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  herself,  so  I  asked  her  to  tea,  and  of  course  I 
inquired  about  you.  You  had  been  ill,  she  said,  and 
at  your  father's,  and  St.  Claire  was  in  Washington.  I 
know  Adele  so  well — she  was  too  offhand  in  her  remarks — 
I  knew  there  was  something  back  of  it,  so  I  proceeded  to 
make  her  angry  by  intimating  that  she  was  in  pursuit  of 
Justin,  and  out  it  all  came :  that  you  had  left  Justin  and 
were  here  in  New  York,  and  that  you  wanted  a  divorce. 
Then  by  applying  the  thumbscrews  I  extracted  your  ad- 
dress from  her.  I  dismissed  Adele,  and  in  two  minutes 
I  had  out  the  car.  I  waited  a  half-hour  for  you  down 
there.  .  .  .  What  does  it  all  mean,  my  dear?" 

While  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  been  talking  Myra 
was  moving  about,  placing  pillows  behind  her  visitor, 
lighting  the  shaded  lamp,  removing  her  hat  and  coat. 
Mrs.  Milenberg  had  sent  some  of  Myra's  possessions,  so 
the  little  place  no  longer  looked  forlorn.  It  had  Myra's 
characteristic  touches  of  warmth  and  color.  When  Mrs. 
Du  Pont-Maurice  concluded  Myra  drew  a  chair  to  the 
couch  and  sat  down. 

"  Do  you  need  to  ask?"  she  said,  gravely. 

"Oh,  I  know,  my  dear,  I  know!  Doubtless  you  have 
had  provocation — I  believe  in  charity  to  women — the 
same  charity  men  extend  to  each  other.  Adele,  of  course, 
wants  to  marry  Justin — she  has  always  wanted  it.  But 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Justin's  left  hand  never  knows 
what  his  right  is  doing,  he  is  used  to  steering  his  boat 

228 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

safely  among  such  shoals.  I  know  my  dear  cousin  Justin 
very  well — I  have  known  him  for  some  forty  years.  He 
has  no  idea  of  marrying  Adele.  But  it  is  a  hope  she  has 
never  been  able  to  relinquish.  I  noticed  her  perform- 
ances at  Woodmansie  Place.  Of  course  it  was  she  who 
precipitated  the  break?  I  roundly  accused  her  of  it, 
and  she  turned  quite  white.  If  she  is  at  the  bottom  of 
all  this  mess  I  shall  make  her  rue  it !  I  have  always  stood 
by  Adele;  she  has  been  more  sinned  against  than  sinning. 
A  little  practical  application  of  eugenics  and  she  would 
never  have  been  at  all,  poor  soul,  but  I  won't  stand  for 
pure  deviltry.  If — " 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  stopped  because  she  was 
out  of  breath,  giving  Myra  at  last  a  chance  to  speak. 
Myra  had  long  ago  decided  who  it  was  who  had  sent  the 
anonymous  letter,  but  she  bore  Adele  no  grudge  for  that. 
That  was  a  matter  that  rested  with  Adele's  own  con- 
science. Myra  answered  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  as  she 
had  answered  her  father. 

"No,"  she  said,  decidedly,  "I  have  no  complaint  to 
make  of  any  woman.  I  believe  in  charity  to  my  own 
kind,  also.  My  reasons  can  be  covered  in  a  sentence: 
I  thought  I  had  married  an  honest  man;  I  could  not  go 
on  living  with  a  lie." 

"It  covers  much,  that  answer  of  yours.  I  asked  my- 
self at  Woodmansie  Place,  'Was  Justin  mad  to  marry  a 
woman  like  this,  and  expect  to  deceive  her?'  Women  are 
not  so  easily  deceived  as  they  used  to  be,  because  they  are 
not  so  determined  not  to  see.  .  .  .  But,  my  dear,  why  are 
you  here — and  in  such  a  place  as  this?  It's  that  troubles 
me.  Justin  may  be  all  sorts,  still  he  will  always  know  how 
to  avoid  scandal.  But  for  you  to  court  it  like  this!" 

Myra  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "What  is  wrong  with 
this  place?  It  is  full  of  working-people,  mostly,  and  quite 
as  moral  a  lot  on  the  whole  as  the  collection  in  Wood- 
mansie Place." 

229 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"  Assurement!"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  exclaimed,  ir- 
ritably. "I  find  no  morals  anywhere — to-day  I  am  more 
than  ever  convinced  that  in  the  form  in  which  in  my 
youth  I  made  acquaintance  with  them  they  do  not  exist. 
The  code  is  being  so  strenuously  overhauled  that  every 
time-honored  rule  of  conduct  is  standing  on  its  head. 
So  be  it.  Something  or  other  will  evolve  out  of  it  all,  I 
suppose.  By  and  by  probably  the  old  rules  will  have  a 
larger  amount  of  sense  cuffed  into  them,  and  be  set  right 
side  up  again.  Let  us  hope  so.  ...  But  for  you  to  come 
among  such  canaille  as  that  odious  person  who  ascended 
with  us — it  gives  such  a  handle  to  the  sensorious — " 
Again  she  stopped,  either  for  breath  or  because  of  Myra's 
surprised  and  amused  eyes. 

"Don't  abuse  the  man,"  Myra  said.  "What  possible 
harm  can  he  do  me?"  She  reached  and  ran  up  the  win- 
dow-shade. "It's  probably  as  you  say  of  Adele,  an  ad- 
mixture of  non-eugenics,  the  lure  of  that  dizzy  dance  out 
there,  and  the  fluctuations  of  the  ticker  that  are  respon- 
sible for  him.  My  chambermaid  tells  me  he  is  a  broker, 
and  'that  generous  a  heart  in  him'!  She  is  Irish  and 
amusing.  I  listen  to  her  on  Sundays,  wrapped  up  here 
on  the  couch,  while  she  opens  my  windows  and  gives  'a 
slap '  to  my  room.  This  place  has  interested  me.  I  have 
been  much  happier  here  than  I  ever  was  at  Woodmansie 
Place — and  in  spite  of  my  difficulties.  .  .  .  Next  to  me  is  a 
theatrical  couple.  They  have  been  married  five  years, 
the  chambermaid  tells  me.  Both  are  filling  engagements. 
They  return  from  the  theater  at  midnight,  and  occasional- 
ly I  have  seen  them  from  my  bath-room  window,  having 
supper  in  their  little  sitting-room,  she  on  his  knee,  eating 
a  bread-and-cheese  sandwich,  and  both  drinking  beer  out 
of  the  same  glass.  A  single  bottle  seems  to  suffice.  They 
appear  to  get  a  vast  deal  of  pleasure  out  of  each  other's 
society.  They  are  mates,  those  two,  and  co-workers. 
And  yet  if  any  Woodmansie  Place-ite  met  them  in  the  hall 

230 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

she  would  be  quite  shocked  at  their  pronounced  appear- 
ance. ...  I  came  here,  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice,  because  I 
have  only  a  little  money  to  tide  me  over  until  I  earn  some, 
and  also  because  I  didn't  want  questions  asked  me;  but 
I  have  thought  sometimes  that  it  is  a  privilege  to  get  this 
three-quarter  view  of  life.  In  the  office  I  am  seeing  life 
from  still  another  angle — ' 

"In  an  office?"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  interrupted. 

"  I  am  working.  Didn't  Adele  inform  you  of  that  also? 
I  came  to  New  York  to  work." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  clapped  her  hands.  "That  ex- 
plains it!"  she  cried.  "It  is  economic  independence  you 
are  after!  .  .  .  My  dear,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  at 
once!  Here  I  have  been  consumed  with  anxiety  over 
you!  When  I  next  see  Adele  I  shall  immerse  her  in 
boiling  water!" 

Myra  guessed  now  the  secret  of  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's 
agitation.  "Why — what  reason  did  she  give?" 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  hesitated.     ' '  The — usual  one — " 

"A  man!"  Myra  said,  with  contempt.  "Poor  Adele! 
she  sees  everything  from  that  angle!" 

"It  is  Justin's  explanation,  also,  ma  ch&re." 

"And  he  too  sees  from  that  angle.  ...  I  thought  you 
knew  me  better?" 

"I  did  not  believe  it,  exactly — still,  as  I  remarked, 
morals  are  on  a  holiday.  We  juggle  so  with  matrimony 
these  days.  I  was  upset,  so  I  came  in  hot  haste.  At 
Woodmansie  Place  I  had  formed  the  opinion  that  you 
were  one  of  those  destined  to  knock  together  the  heads 
of  all  the  little  tin  gods.  I  thought  possibly  you  had 
made  a  lunge  at  them.  I  find  you  have  taken  a  step  I 
approve.  .  .  .  Tell  me  now  the  where  and  the  how  of 
this  'work'  of  yours?" 

Myra  told  her  in  detail.  She  brought  the  recital  down 
to  the  events  of  that  day.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  bent 
to  her,  her  eyes  bright  with  interest.  When  Myra  finished 

231 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

she  straightened  so  abruptly  that  the  bird-of-paradise 
feathers  in  her  hat  executed  a  curve. 

"Bon!"  she  said.  "Thirty  years  ago  how  I  should 
have  enjoyed  making  the  plunge  into  independence!" 
Then  she  quieted  as  suddenly.  "And  what  is  your  plan 
for  the  future?" 

"I  want  to  fit  myself  to  be  an  interior  decorator.  I 
want  father  to  give  me  enough  to  make  that  possible.  I 
mean  to  support  myself,  finally,  of  course." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  nodded.  She  mused  a  moment 
with  finger  tapping  an  admirably  made  porcelain  tooth. 
"That  little  hawk — your  father — he  will  object.  He  will 
stand  with  Justin.  Still,  he  is  a  wise  little  hawk,  a  deal 
wiser  than  Justin."  She  lifted  keen  eyes  to  Myra. 
"But,  my  little  friend,  that  answer  of  yours  is  incom- 
plete. What  more  in  the  future,  eh?" 

Myra  flushed.     "I  want  love — by  and  by." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  nodded  again.  "Yes;  you  are 
one  of  those  who  must  have  it.  ...  It  would  sweeten  exist- 
ence a  bit  if  you  had  it  now — of  the  right  kind — not  of 
the  kind  I  supposed  when  I  came  running  here.  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  deep  in  you  is  there  not  a  suspicion  of  the  ultimate 
man?  Some  one  with  whom  you  have  touched  hands, 
whose  inclination  is  drawing  you?" 

Myra's  wide  look  was  hers  to  read.  "Some  one  who 
loves  me?  .  .  .  Certainly  not!  Who  on  earth  would  there 
be? ...  Don't  force  me  to  conclude  that  you  are  foolishly 
romantic  as  well  as  easily  suspicious!"  Myra  spoke 
warmly,  for  she  had  not  forgiven  her  visitor  her  doubts 
of  her. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  fingers  suddenly  guarded  lips 
that  had  twitched  in  a  longing  to  smile.  For  one  moment 
she  was  desperately  afraid  her  eyes  would  betray  her. 
Myra  had  quieted  her  anxiety,  and  she  was  inclined  to 
be  merry.  A  spirit  of  mischief  well  spiced  with  daring 
was  far  more  natural  to  her  than  agitation.  She  loved  to 

232 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

investigate,  and  to  test,  very  frequently  quite  regardless 
of  consequences.  She  liked  Myra;  she  had  been  quite 
concerned  for  her,  but,  her  fears  quieted,  her  spirits  had 
risen.  She  removed  her  hand  from  her  lips. 

"No;  I'm  not  of  Adele's  mind,"  she  said.  "Far  from 
it.  I  doubt  if  I  am  romantic,  either.  But  love  is  sure  to 
discover  you  one  of  these  days,  my  little  friend — best  it 
should  come  from  the  right  quarter.  A  determined  man 
to  grapple  with  your  father  and  Justin — that  would  not 
be  a  bad  thing." 

Myra  laughed  at  her,  half  in  surprise  and  half  in 
amusement.  "You  are  a  curious  little  lady." 

"Am  I  not!"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  agreed,  brightly. 
"Well,  let  us  dismiss  the  problematic  knight  and  return 
to  the  practical.  ...  I  wish  you  out  of  this  house.  It  is 
not  the  surrounding  for  you." 

"It  is  the  best  I  can  afford,"  Myra  returned,  firmly. 
"Besides,  I  mean  my  father  shall  realize  how  completely 
in  earnest  I  am.  ...  I  am  not  unhappy  here." 

"A  dun-colored  answer  that — a  thoroughly  feminine 
answer.  A  man  would  say,  'Oh,  I'm  all  right!'  And  he 
would  be — as  right  as  any  male  without  a  mate.  He  has 
all  that  out  there  open  to  him,  a  sedative  at  least  to 
loneliness.  But  a  woman!"  She  shrugged,  grown  sud- 
denly grave.  "I  know  something  of  loneliness.  Loneli- 
ness does  strange  things  to  a  woman,  dear,  and  the  woman 
who  is  alone  is  lonely.  It  is  a  far  more  potent  subduer 
than  starvation.  It  brought  me  to  my  knees  once, 
ground  my  face  in  the  dirt.  I  shall  never  forget  the  ex- 
perience. I  dread  loneliness  more  powerfully  than  the 
plague.  That  is  the  reason  I  now  run  about  the  world 
and  chatter  so  much.  ...  To  a  woman  of  your  tempera- 
ment, when  it  takes  hold  upon  her,  loneliness  is  a  ghastly 
thing,  and  here  you  cannot  escape  it.  You  will  not  ask 
your  friends  here.  You  have  a  deal  of  social  sense  like 
most  people  who  feel  superior  to  society,  and  I  know  you 

233 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

will  not  do  it.  But  you  cannot  live  entirely  without  peo- 
ple— no  one  can.  ...  It  will  be  difficult  for  you  in  any  case, 
for  you  are  an  anomaly.  The  female  anomaly  is  viewed 
askance,  the  male  anomaly  with  romantic  interest.  It 
will  be  better  to  change  your  environment,  so,  my  little 
friend,  if  I  make  it  possible  for  you  to  live  nearer  me — you 
will  come?" 

It  was  the  first  helping  hand  that  had  been  extended  to 
Myra,  and  she  had  tasted  loneliness  in  that  little  pocket- 
handkerchief  of  a  room — somewhat  poignantly  when  her 
window  showed  her  the  "co-partners"  with  arms  about 
each  other.  The  tears  rose  in  her  eyes,  though  she  shook 
her  head  decidedly. 

"No.  .  .  .  You  are  kind,  but  no  one  can  fight  my  battle 
for  me.  I  realize  that  I  am  an  '  anomaly ' — anomaly  is  a 
good  word.  I  have  already  suffered  as  a  result — but, 
Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice,  anything  is  better  than  Wood- 
mansie  Place."  Myra  flushed  hotly  in  conclusion. 

"So  you  remain  here?" 

"Yes.  I  have  no  time  for  people — people  can't  fill 
one's  heart." 

"But  you  will  accept — just  a  little  loan?" 

"No,  my  dear  friend;  I  am  not  suffering." 

"So  be  it,  then.  .  .  .  But  you  can  at  least  dine  with  me? 
.  .  .  To-morrow — let  it  be  to-morrow?" 

"Certainly  I  will,  and  with  pleasure,"  Myra  answered, 
warmly. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  was  standing,  and  now  through 
her  lorgnette  she  took  a  deliberate  survey  of  the  three- 
cornered  space  in  which  she  was.  Then  she  nodded  in 
a  reassured  way.  "You  know,  a  man  would  think  this 
quite  charming — a  Vaise.  I  have  noticed  that  a  man  in 
love  dislikes  wide  spaces.  Else  why  do  they  always 
lead  their  ladies  into  corners,  behind  palms,  and  into 
bosky  dells?  A  Russian — you  will  meet  him  this  winter 
at  my  house — a  charming  man — once  told  me  that  he 

234 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

was  quite  alone  for  three  days  in  the  Desert  of  Sahara 
with  a  lady  whom  he  adored.  They  had  wandered  from  a 
caravan  or  something  of  the  kind  and  became  lost.  And 
in  all  that  three  days  he  found  it  quite  impossible  to  say 
a  word  of  love.  With  foreign  frankness  he  declared  that 
it  was  not  chivalrous  considerations  that  restrained  him. 
The  desert  was  so  big — not  a  seductive  corner  to  be  dis- 
covered anywhere." 

It  was  utterly  impossible  to  tell,  when  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice  made  such  speeches,  whether  she  was  inwardly 
smiling,  her  gravity  was  always  so  birdlike.  Neverthe- 
less, Myra  laughed,  her  first  hearty  laugh  for  many  a  day. 
When  she  sobered  she  made  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  prom- 
ise that  she  would  not  introduce  her  to  a  dinner-party. 

"I  am  not  ready  to  meet  people,"  Myra  said,  de- 
cidedly. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  promised. 
16 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HPHE  next  evening,  when  Myra  put  on  a  gown  of  the  win- 
1  ter  before,  she  realized  how  far  she  had  traveled  away 
from  society.  A  year,  and  to  the  critical  even  a  French 
importation  was  out  of  date.  But  its  tint,  a  pale  green 
overlaid  with  gold,  was  exquisite — as  was  the  color  in  her 
cheeks.  She  was  looking  exceedingly  well,  perhaps  be- 
cause the  prospect  of  throwing  off  anxiety,  of  relaxing  for 
a  short  time  amid  surroundings  to  which  she  was  accus- 
tomed— shaded  lights,  unobtrusive  service,  nonchalance, 
studied  gaiety — filled  her  with  a  vague  sense  of  pleasure. 
It  was  over  eight  months  since  she  had  attended  a  dinner- 
party. 

Then  Myra  suddenly  smiled  at  her  reflection,  the  realiza- 
tion of  her  excitement  touching  her  sense  of  humor.  She 
was  an  office-woman  who  cooked  her  breakfasts  over  an 
alcohol-stove,  and  was  going  in  an  out-of-date  gown  to 
dine  with  an  old  lady  who  was  so  sorry  for  her  that  she 
had  offered  to  make  her  a  loan.  More  than  that,  she  was 
an  "anomaly. "...  Nevertheless  her  pleasure  persisted,  for 
she  had  been  somewhat  buffeted  in  Hosbrock's  office,  and 
had  been  desperately  lonely  in  that  little  triangular  room 
with  the  death's-head  gaiety  of  Broadway  nightly  grin- 
ning in  at  her. 

And  cabs  were  not  for  her.  With  her  skirts  pinned  up 
under  her  long  cloak,  Myra  walked  to  Fifth  Avenue  and 
intrusted  herself  to  the  omnibus.  Being  used  to  the  speed 
of  limousines,  she  was  late  for  dinner. 

The  rich  appointments  of  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's 

236 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

white-and-gold  bedroom  seemed  very  natural,  quite  a 
part  of  life,  as  did  the  attentions  of  the  French  maid.  " 

"Am  I  very  late,  Clarisse?"  she  asked,  as  the  girl  in 
secret  surprise  unpinned  her  skirts  and  took  away  her  long 
street  coat.  She  knew  Mrs.  St.  Claire;  she  had  accom- 
panied Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  to  Woodmansie  Place. 

"  Un  peu,  madame — the  gentlemen  have  both  come." 

Myra  turned  on  her  abruptly.     "What  gentlemen?" 

"I  do  not  know  them,  madame,"  the  girl  said,  sur- 
prised at  Myra's  manner. 

Myra  had  flushed.  Then  she  chilled,  for  she  was  deep- 
ly annoyed.  She  shrank  from  meeting  strangers,  and  men 
in  particular.  Why  had  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  gone  so 
directly  contrary  to  her  request?  If  it  was  a  bit  of  mis- 
chief, it  was  in  bad  taste. 

Myra  was  still  pale  when  she  came  into  the  drawing- 
room.  She  did  not  glance  at  the  two  black-coated  figures 
that  rose  at  her  entrance.  One  of  Myra's  social  assets 
was  the  cool  indifference  that  on  her  entrance  into  a 
drawing-room  saw  only  her  hostess  until  greetings  were 
exchanged.  It  invariably  fixed  every  eye  in  the  room 
upon  her.  Both  men  stood  expectant  now. 

"Late,  yes,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  said, 
carelessly.  "But  we  are  such  an  informal  party  I  for- 
give you.  I  felt  it  best  to  save  you  the  ennui  of  an  even- 
ing tete-a-tete  with  an  old  lady.  I  do  not  need  to  present 
these  gentlemen — " 

Myra  turned  then,  swiftly,  and  the  color  flew  into  her 
cheeks.  It  was  Janniss  who  took  her  hand  first;  Alyth 
awaited  his  turn,  studying  her  flushed  face  in  his  unob- 
trusive way. 

"Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  seems  to  have  sprung  a  sur- 
prise," he  said,  when  Myra  turned  to  him. 

"A  very  delightful  one,"  Myra  returned,  brightly.  She 
touched  Mrs.  Du  Font-Maurice's  arm,  a  gesture  graceful 
in  its  suggestion  of  relief  and  pleasure.  "How  is  it  this 

237 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

little  person  always  selects  the  people  one  wishes  to  see? 
A  bit  of  mind-reading?" 

"A  wish  that  seems  to  have  lain  dormant,"  Janniss 
retorted  in  frank  reproach.  "I  have  not  been  in  China. 
It  seems  I  have  been  little  more  than  a  stone's-throw  dis- 
tant from  you  for  two  months." 

Alyth,  with  his  gift  for  silence,  said  nothing,  and  Myra 
knew  instantly  that  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  outlined 
the  situation  to  the  two.  It  was  as  well  so.  Alyth  would 
understand  without  being  told,  but  Janniss  would  not. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  look  equally  clear  for  both  men, 
"I  came  in  October.  I  am  learning  to  be  a  business 
woman,  and  have  been  so  desperately  anxious  to  make 
good,  and  so  fearful  of  failure,  that  I  hesitated  to  burden 
my  friends  with  my  struggle.  I  have  felt  a  little  as  you 
feel  when  you  are  painting  a  portrait,  Mr.  Janniss.  You 
hide  the  thing  from  even  the  most  friendly  eye  until  it  is 
an  accomplishment;  then  the  whole  world  may  come  and 
look  at  it." 

Perhaps  purposely  Alyth  led  off  from  the  personal. 
"Gerard  works  differently.  He  sets  a  half-finished  por- 
trait where  his  washer-woman  or  the  janitor  or  any  other 
chance  person  may  stumble  upon  it,  and  then  collects 
their  involuntary  comments.  He  tells  me  that  there  is 
a  deal  of  help  to  be  gleaned  from  their  remarks." 

"Gerard  is  never  sure  of  himself,"  Janniss  said,  with 
professional  scorn.  "Even  his  portrait  of  a  supposedly 
square-jawed  broker  hesitates  in  its  frame." 

"I  shall  endeavor  to  look  immovable  at  my  next  sit- 
ting," Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  remarked,  demurely.  "He 
is  painting  me." 

Both  Myra  and  Alyth  laughed,  while  Janniss,  much  to 
his  own  annoyance,  flushed  warmly.  The  ease  with  which 
he  changed  color  always  irritated  him — as  did  the  gold 
in  his  hair;  infantile  attributes  both,  he  considered.  He 
was  not  himself,  anyway;  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  con- 

238 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

ceal  the  excitement  he  was  feeling;  he  had  not  done  a 
stroke  of  work  all  day.  His  desire  to  atone  had  a  boyish 
genuineness  about  it  that  made  it  charming. 

"A  little,  bright-plumaged  bird  is  rarely  very  still; 
perhaps  Gerard's  brush  is  the  very  one  to  do  you  justice. 
His  'Sixteen'  is  a  really  beautiful  thing,  and  because  of 
that  very  hesitant  quality.  When  it  comes  to  women, 
confound  it !  I  am  always  painting  flesh.  I'm  as  jealous 
as  the  Emerald  Isles  of  Gerard's  elusive  touch." 

Though  not  as  tall  a  man  as  Alyth,  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice's  elaborately  dressed  white  head  was  on  a  level 
with  his  breast  only,  and  as  he  looked  down  into  her  little 
pink,  mischievous  face  he  appeared  very  much  the  peni- 
tent son.  It  was  the  appeal  he  always  made  to  Myra, 
and  Alyth,  standing  by,  watched  the  expression  that 
crossed  Myra's  face — a  look  wonderfully  sweet  and  ten- 
der. It  struck  Alyth  that  the  man  was  lovable,  and  in 
need  of  just  such  qualities  in  a  woman  as  Myra  pos- 
sessed. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  sparkling  glances  covered  an 
acute  observation  of  each  of  her  guests.  She  was  enjoy- 
ing herself  immensely.  She  had  drawn  certain  inferences 
from  the  way  in  which  both  men  had  received  her  tele- 
phone invitation  to  meet  Myra  St.  Claire:  Janniss  had 
accepted  after  a  perceptible  pause,  and  in  a  voice  that  had 
altered;  Alyth  had  been  quick  and  brief,  almost  curt. 
And  she  was  further  entertained  when  on  their  arrival 
she  had  explained  the  situation. 

"I  know  I  shall  be  telling  you  news,"  she  had  announced. 
"You  don't  know,  of  course,  that  Myra  St.  Claire  has  left 
her  husband.  It  is  not  even  an  open  secret  yet,  so  you 
will  please  regard  what  I  have  told  you  as  a  confidence. 
She  has  been  in  New  York  for  two  months." 

Alyth's  face  had  grown  slightly  more  set;  Karl  Janniss 
had  flushed,  and  then  gradually  lost  color. 

"I  didn't  know,"  he  said  in  a  subdued  way. 
239 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

After  a  pause  Alyth  had  asked,  "Is  Mrs.  Milenberg 
with  her?" 

"No,  she  is  quite  by  herself  and  working,  getting  in- 
struction in  some  firm,  I  believe;  fitting  herself  to  do  in- 
terior decoration.  Oddly  enough,  she  is  staying  at  the 
Hotel  Cyril.  It  appears  to  be  an  inconspicuous  enough 
place,  and  full  of  people  doing  something  or  other;  but 
I  proceeded  to  be  shocked  when  I  found  her  there — it's 
rather  a  contrast  to  Woodmansie  Place,  you  know.  Her 
reasons  won  me  over,  however.  She  means  that  her  father 
shall  give  her  his  support,  and  he  is  not  likely  to  relish 
the  Hotel  Cyril.  Then  she  declares  she  enjoys  getting 
that  'three-quarter'  view  of  life,  as  she  expresses  it.  Of 
course  Myra  would  be  safe  anywhere;  she  has  perfected 
the  art  of  inaccessibility.  And  she  has  a  really  charming 
little  apartment,  homelike  as  Myra  will  always  make  any 
place  in  which  she  is  given  a  free  hand.  .  .  .  However,  I 
mean  to  have  her  out  here  somewhere  near  me  before 
long.  I  am  very  fond  of  Myra  St.  Claire.  I  should  like 
to  see  her  affairs  adjusted,  as  they  will  be,  of  course,  in 
time,  and  her  future  settled.  Myra  is  a  woman  pre- 
eminently fitted  for  home-making.  The  man  who  finally 
wins  her  will  be  fortunate." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  felt  that  she  had  put  the  thing 
rather  neatly,  so  much  so  that  both  men  appeared  to  be 
speechless.  Just  like  men!  Any  woman,  no  matter  how 
much  in  love  she  was,  would  have  found  something  to  say. 
It  was  a  little  awkward  in  a  way.  Alyth,  of  course,  knew 
what  Janniss's  blank  look  and  darkened  eyes  meant,  and 
possibly  Janniss  guessed  Alyth's  secret.  It  was  a  most 
entertaining  situation,  and  would  be  more  so  when  Myra 
arrived. 

But  Myra,  when  she  came  in,  touched  something  more 
than  the  incessant  craving  for  some  satisfaction  denied 
her  that  drove  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  about  the  world; 
that  made  her  investigate  all  sorts  of  things;  that  tempted 

240 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

her  to  play  with  situations  and  with  people.  The  girl 
was  sweet ;  she  delighted  her.  She  had  entered,  white  and 
cold,  as  graceful  and  withdrawn  as  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
had  ever  seen  her,  but  at  the  breaking  of  surprise  had 
turned  as  pink  as  a  child.  There  was  something  relieved 
and  joyous  in  her  expression  that  remained  with  her 
throughout  dinner. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  suspected  that  beneath  the 
coldly  graceful  and  tactful  hostess  of  Woodmansie  Place, 
and  the  earnest  woman  with  whom  she  had  talked  the 
evening  before,  there  was  the  alluring  woman.  She  saw 
her  revealed  now.  There  was  a  little  of  the  uncaged  bird 
about  Myra  that  evening  that  was  irresistible — a  thou- 
sand naturalnesses  that  were  charming  because  so  un- 
consciously alluring.  She  was  alluring  to  the  point  of 
being  compelling,  and  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  understood 
the  reason:  two  years  of  unhappy  marriage,  followed  by 
six  months  of  illness,  and  the  little  hotel  room  to  give  the 
entire  experience  poignancy.  A  reaction  had  set  in, 
touched  off  by  a  subconscious  realization  of  masculine 
demand  that  to  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  acute  sense  was 
apparent  enough.  The  eternal,  unalterable,  world-popu- 
lating fact — man's  and  woman's  need  of  each  other. 

And  how  beautiful  she  was!  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
had  never  seen  her  so  beautiful.  Janniss  gazed  at  her 
with  more  than  an  artist's  delight.  Alyth  turned  on  her 
his  vivid  glance,  frequently  a  smiling  one,  and  a  smile 
was  a  rare  thing  with  him.  Of  the  two  she  judged  him 
to  be  the  more  profoundly  moved. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  was  too  much  interested  in  the 
three  people  she  had  brought  together  to  feel  any  jealousy 
of  the  woman  who  was  swaying  two  men  by  the  sheer 
charm  of  her  personality.  Myra  had  always  been  able 
to  talk  to  clever  men,  though  she  was  neither  witty  nor 
erudite.  It  was  simply  that  everything  she  said  was 
clothed  in  an  air  of  freshness,  a  certain  pleasing  originality, 

241 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

the  examination  of  every  subject  from  a  slightly  different 
angle  from  the  ordinary,  that  always  won  her  interested 
attention. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  felt  a  mischievous  satisfaction 
at  the  forces  she  had  set  going.  There  was  but  one  wom- 
an, and  here  were  two  men,  utterly  different  in  most 
respects,  but  both  of  the  not-to-be-denied  sort.  Janniss 
she  liked  thoroughly;  he  had  passed  unscathed  through 
what  must  have  been  a  tempting  situation,  hours  of  Adele 
Courland's  society.  It  was  true  that  Adele  was  under 
St.  Claire's  spell,  and  Janniss  was  certainly  acute  enough 
to  have  seen  it,  but  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  knew  that 
Adele's  infatuation  for  St.  Claire  inclined  her  the  more 
to  work  mischief  upon  every  man  who  approached  her, 
a  sort  of  determined  retaliation  upon  the  whole  sex,  a 
utilization  of  her  own  restlessness  that  worked  havoc.  It 
was  the  more  astonishing  that  Janniss  had  escaped,  as 
Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  felt  very  certain  that  he  could  be 
intensely  emotional.  He  had  great  talent,  and  was  al- 
ready successful ;  there  was  much  to  be  said  for  him. 

But  it  was  Alyth  upon  whom  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
had  serious  intentions.  She  looked  frequently  from  his 
dark  face  to  Myra's  warm  yet  delicate  beauty.  At  Wood- 
mansie  Place  Alyth  had  impressed  her.  She  judged  him 
strong-willed,  self-restrained,  and  critical,  a  man  of  few 
loves,  but  those  strong  ones.  He  had  power.  He  carried 
about  with  him  an  atmosphere  of  unswerving  determina- 
tion, of  reliability.  He  would  be  capable  of  coping  with 
either  St.  Claire  or  Milenberg.  At  Woodmansie  Place  she 
had  felt  certain  that  he  was  deeply  interested  in  Myra; 
that  he  was  there  solely  to  see  her.  He  was  a  man  who, 
if  he  wanted  a  woman,  would  have  her;  wait  patiently  for 
her  if  need  be.  He  had  more  stability  than  Janniss. 

So,  following  out  a  well-defined  plan,  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice,  after  coffee  and  cigarettes,  set  going  the  great 
sex-attracter  of  the  season.  While  the  two  men  sat  with 

242 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

eyes  on  Myra,  she  started  the  victrola  on  a  muscle-twitch- 
ing trot.  Alyth's  head  lifted,  a  quick  movement,  then 
a  pause,  but  Janniss  was  on  his  feet  instantly  and  bent 
over  Myra.  The  first  note  had  caught  him  up  bodily. 

"Please,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  little  startled,  yet  laugh- 
ing. "I  have  not  danced  for  eight  months — and  this 
thing—" 

"We  danced  to  it  last  spring.  I  taught  you  it.  And  this 
year  you  have  heard  it  sung  and  whistled  and  barreled 
all  over  the  place." 

"Yes,  you  set  all  Woodmansie  Place  'trotting.'  I  have 
the  rhythm  in  my  head  still,  but  I  am  afraid  my  feet  have 
lost  the  trick." 

"Let  us  see,"  he  begged. 

Myra  rose  a  little  reluctantly,  and  Janniss  took  her  in 
his  arms.  For  the  first  few  rounds  of  the  spacious  draw- 
ing-room she  moved  uncertainly,  then  she  slipped  into 
the  swing  of  it,  her  innate  sense  of  rhythm  captured.  Jan- 
niss was  a  masterful  dancer,  and  Myra  possessed  almost 
perfect  pliancy.  They  teetered,  sidled,  and  as  Myra  re- 
laxed into  greater  freedom  they  whirled  round  and  round, 
clasped  close,  she  at  least  swept  into  the  sheer  delight  of 
motion,  an  ebullition  of  the  high  spirits  that  possessed  her. 
They  danced  twice,  then  a  third  time,  a  gliding  step  that 
showed  their  mutual  youth  and  grace. 

Alyth  had  helped  the  butler  to  draw  aside  the  chairs 
and  rugs.  Then  he  stood  watching  in  so  expressionless  a 
way  that  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  smiled  a  little  to  herself. 
He  did  not  dance,  probably — he  was  not  the  dancing 
sort — and  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  guessed  that  at  that 
moment  he  was  feeling  no  love  for  Karl  Janniss.  Her 
spirit  of  mischief  was  satisfied.  She  lifted  the  needle 
from  the  victrola's  circling  disk  and  called,  "Fini!" 

It  was  before  Alyth  the  two  stopped,  and  into  his  face 
Myra  looked  with  eyes  alight  and  lips  parted,  the  breath- 

243 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

less  look  of  a  girl  surprised  at  being  swept  into  hilarity. 
Janniss  was  flushed  to  crimson,  and  a  little  husky. 

"One  more!"  he  begged. 

But  Myra  refused.  She  must  be  going  soon,  and  so  far 
she  had  had  no  chance  to  talk  alone  with  Alyth,  which 
was  the  thing  she  wanted.  She  stood  beside  him  while 
the  drawing-room  was  righted,  and  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
decided  that  it  was  time  now  to  favor  Alyth,  so  she  led 
Janniss  into  the  library  to  see  a  painting.  Myra  asked 
then  at  once  the  question  she  had  wanted  to  ask  all  evening : 

"You  know  a  good  deal  of  father's  movements.  Do  you 
know  when  he  will  be  here?" 

Alyth  hesitated.     "Yes;  I  saw  him  to-day." 

Myra  was  startled.  Her  eyes  widened  and  dilated. 
One  word  from  her  father  and  Hosbrock  would  dispense 
with  her  services.  .  .  .  Still,  it  would  not  be  like  her  father 
to  take  such  a  step  until  he  had  given  her  the  benefit  of  the 
threat.  Myra  was  back  again  with  her  anxieties. 

"I  suppose  he  will  come  to  see  me  to-morrow?"  she  said, 
soberly.  "Did  he  speak  of  me?  .  .  .  But,  no,  that  would 
not  be  like  him." 

"No,  he  did  not  mention  you.  He  is  not  looking  well; 
his  illness  has  told  on  him,  so  possibly  it  will  have  softened 
him  a  bit,"  Alyth  said,  reassuringly. 

Her  look  of  anxiety  had  aged  her  five  years.  She  was 
no  longer  the  bright  girl  who  had  laughed  with  Janniss. 
Her  expression  changed  now  to  one  of  complete  surprise. 
"Father  ill!" 

"You  didn't  know  it,  then?  .  .  .  One  of  the  Huntington 
men  who  was  on  here  from  San  Francisco  told  me.  Your 
father  had  an  attack  of  appendicitis  while  out  there;  not 
an  operation — the  doctors  fixed  him  up  without  that,  I 
believe;  but  he  had  a  severe  time  of  it,  and  it  has  told 
on  him." 

"I  cannot  imagine  father  ill,"  Myra  said,  wonderingly. 
"I  know  he  has  not  told  mother.  .  .  .  How  like  him!" 

244 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"I've  brought  you  ill  news  and  anxiety.  I  have 
wiped  the  brightness  out  of  your  face;  I  was  afraid  I 
should.  You  have  looked  happier  this  evening  than  I 
have  ever  seen  you." 

"I  am  glad  to  know  beforehand  about  father.  ...  It 
has  been  a  tremendous  relief  to  throw  the  whole  thing  off 
for  one  evening." 

"It  has  been  hard,  then — these  two  months?" 

"Yes,  it  has  been  hard.  I  have  been  afraid  sometimes 
that  I  would  grow  hard  because  of  it.  ...  I  think,  though, 
that  I  have  simply  learned  a  good  deal.  I  try  to  think  of 
it  in  that  way." 

Alyth  recollected  vividly  the  first  words  he  had  ever 
heard  her  speak,  her  remarks  anent  the  patchwork  quilt. 
He  had  had  many  thoughts  of  her  that  evening,  some  of 
them  turbulent  enough;  he  was  still  tense  from  the  sight 
of  her  bright  head  against  Janniss's  shoulder.  He  went 
oa  steadily: 

"Just  what  is  it  you  are  doing?" 

Myra  told  him. 

"Anton  Hosbrock — ' '  Alyth's  brows  contracted.  He  felt 
the  same  savage  irritation  that  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  mis- 
chievous trick  of  the  dance  had  caused.  His  eyes  dropped 
for  a  moment  to  Myra's  throat  and  bosom,  the  involuntary 
jealous  appreciation  of  what  would  be  her  attraction  to  a 
man  like  Hosbrock.  Alyth  had  much  of  the  modern  spirit 
— at  any  rate  he  possessed  it  in  theory — the  willingness  to 
give  woman  an  equal  opportunity,  and  the  belief  that  she 
would  be  competent  to  hold  her  .own;  but  the  thought  of 
Myra  as  employed  by  an  Anton  Hosbrock  aroused  in  him 
an  instant  hot  disapproval.  And  it  was  not  in  his  power 
to  take  her  away  from  it  all.  In  time  Janniss  might. 

Myra  noticed  his  expression.  "You  know  Mr.  Hos- 
brock, then?" 

"Yes.  ...  He  was  architect  of  that  enormity  in  Manor 
Park  that  I  call  home." 

245 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

It  was  the  same  note  of  bitter  dissatisfaction  Myra  had 
more  than  once  before  heard  from  him.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  the  fold  between  his  eyes  was  deeper  than  usual, 
the  lines  about  his  mouth  harder.  Evidently  things  were 
not  going  well  with  him.  She  was  intensely  sorry  for 
him.  For  a  moment  she  saw  Caroline  Alyth  as  she  had 
looked  when  she  had  cuffed  her  little  son.  No  wonder 
any  reminder  of  his  home  exasperated  him.  But  he  loved 
his  children. 

"How  are  the  boys?"  she  asked,  her  look  as  sweet  as 
the  one  she  had  given  Janniss  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"My  boys?  .  .  .  Why — I  have  at  last  gotten  my  way, 
and  Jack  is  at  boarding-school.  The  experience  is  doing 
him  good.  Dick,  my  companion  these  days,  is  building 
irrigation  ditches  across  my  bedroom  floor.  He  almost 
brought  down  the  drawing-room  ceiling  the  other  day 
when  he  attached  rubber  tubing  to  the  bath-room  tap  and 
flooded  his  construction.  My  room  is  a  network  of  wires 
and  erections  and  constructions.  I  have  to  move  about 
the  place  gingerly,  but  what  of  that?  I  am  bound  the 
boy  shall  have  one  spot  where  he  may  do  as  he  pleases. 
Fortunately  Caroline  is  so  engrossed  in  investing  her  for- 
tune that  she  has  relaxed  a  little  her  hold  on  the  boys.  A 
hundred  thousand  dollars  is  something  to  be  fondled 
tenderly."  It  was  a  relief  to  talk  at  some  length.  His 
voice  lost  its  harshness  in  talking  of  Dick,  and  when  he 
spoke  of  his  wife  his  comments  were  more  humorous  than 
scornful. 

It  seemed  natural  to  be  talking  again  to  Alyth  in  this 
intimate  way,  and,  as  had  always  been  the  case,  she  talked 
while  weighted  with  anxiety — or  uncertainty.  Their  ac- 
quaintance had  from  the  beginning  been  on  that  footing. 
Myra  was  worried  now  about  her  father's  impending  visit. 
She  found  it  hard  not  to  be  distrait;  the  spell  that  had 
held  her  throughout  the  evening  was  broken.  She  was 
ready  to  go  back  to  her  little  room. 

246 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

There  was  something  more  she  wanted  to  say,  however, 
and  she  hastened  to  say  it,  for  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  and 
Janniss  were  returning:  "A  dozen  times  I  have  been  on 
the  point  of  letting  you  know  I  was  in  New  York,  and  then 
my  pride  got  in  the  way.  I  wanted  to  be  able  to  say: 
'  See  how  well  I  am  succeeding — and  all  through  my  own 
efforts!'  I  hope  you  won't  bear  me  a  grudge  for  it,  but 
will  come  to  see  me?  .  .  .  The  Hotel  Cyril — unless  my 
father  ejects  me."  There  was  anxiety  as  well  as  a  smile 
in  her  eyes. 

Alyth  looked  down  at  her.  Come  to  see  her!  It  had 
been  one  of  the  questions  he  had  been  turning  over  and 
over  in  his  mind  ever  since  he  had  received  Mrs.  Du 
Pont-Maurice's  telephone  message.  How  far  dared  he  let 
himself  go?  But  there  was  only  one  answer  to  be  made 
to  Myra:  "Thank  you — I  shall  certainly  come." 

Janniss,  who  had  been  secretly  chafing  at  his  detention 
in  the  next  room,  came  directly  to  Myra,  and  Alyth  stood 
aside  then,  allowing  him  to  monopolize  her.  Janniss  had 
the  request  to  make  that  had  been  burning  his  tongue 
all  evening. 

"You  wouldn't  let  me  paint  you  at  Woodmansie 
Place.  Won't  you  be  kinder  now?"  he  asked.  The 
wish  to  paint  her  had  been  a  thing  that  had  lived  with 
Janniss  ever  since  his  first  sight  of  her.  She  had  always 
delighted  the  artist  in  him  quite  as  much  as  she  had 
pleased  the  man.  The  determination  to  paint  her  had 
been  part  of  his  infatuation. 

"  How  can  I  be?"  Myra  protested.  "  I  am  busy  all  day." 
She  smiled  at  his  look  of  intense  disappointment.  "You 
don't  realize  yet  that  I  am  working  eight  hours  a  day." 

"I  had  forgotten;   but  there  is  Sunday,"  he  pleaded. 

"My  one  day  of  rest!" 

Janniss  bore  the  refusal  as  best  he  could;  there  was  the 
future  in  which  he  could  get  his  way.  "But  I  may  cprne 
to  see  you?"  he  asked. 

247 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Yes,  some  evening,"  Myra  said,  cordially.  Her  even- 
ings had  been  desolate  enough. 

Myra  was  ready  to  go,  and  it  was  Janniss  who  asked  to 
take  her  down  to  the  limousine  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
had  insisted  upon  ordering.  Alyth  kept  his  distance. 
Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  wondered  what  had  passed  be- 
tween the  two  while  she  and  Janniss  were  absent.  She 
had  gathered  that  it  was  a  serious  conversation.  Myra's 
face  had  lost  its  brightness.  She  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  Alyth's  expression;  there  was  neither  joy  nor 
excitement  in  it,  only  a  certain  fixidity.  When  Myra 
announced  her  readiness  to  go  Alyth  took  his  departure, 
somewhat  hastily,  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  thought.  There 
was  already  something  between  these  two  people. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  was  well  satisfied  with  the 
evening,  and  ready  to  reconnoiter  a  little,  so  she  accom- 
panied Myra  into  the  bedroom.  While  Clarisse  waited 
upon  her  guest  her  tongue  ran  on: 

"That  black-a-browed  friend  of  yours,  ma  chere,  that 
Alyth  man,  tell  me  about  him?  It  seems  incredible,  but 
I  have  only  seen  him  once  before — at  Woodmansie  Place." 

"  He  is  a  mining  expert — one  of  the  best  in  the  country," 
Myra  answered,  a  little  absently.  She  was  wondering 
if  possibly  her  father  had  been  that  night  to  see  her.  It 
would  not  improve  his  temper  to  find  her  out. 

"Man  Dieu!"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  exclaimed.  "I 
am  well  aware  of  that!  It  is  the  first  thing  one  learns 
about  the  man !  He  was  head-lined  a  dozen  times  in  the 
papers  last  winter  —  some  wonderful  doing  or  other  in 
South  America.  He  is  successful,  and  very  sure  of  him- 
self, and  a  self-made  individual,  and  all  that — one  learns 
it  simply  by  looking  at  him.  I  telephoned  him  at  his 
office.  Where  does  he  live?  What  is  his  fortune,  and  who 
are  his  friends,  and  is  he  engaged,  semi-attached,  or  care- 
free?" 

"I  know  very  little  about  him  socially,"   Myra  an- 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

swered.  "Your  New  York  friends  can  tell  you  more  than 
I.  I  fancy  he  cares  very  little  for  society.  He  is  mar- 
ried and  lives  in  some  suburb — Manor  Park,  I  believe." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  stood  in  petrified  silence.  If 
Myra  had  not  been  busied  with  Clarisse  her  little  friend's 
face  would  have  startled  her.  When  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice  finally  searched  for  her  voice  it  was  robbed  of 
expression. 

"  Married,"  she  said,  softly.  "The  dear  Lord! . . .  Why, 
I  have  never  known  a  more  unmarried  man — in  effect." 
Then  she  was  visited  by  a  flash  of  intuition.  "In  the 
suburbs.  .  .  .  Don't  tell  me  now  that  he  is  a  father — " 

"Yes.  Why  are  you  so  surprised?"  Myra  asked.  "He 
has  two  little  boys." 

"And  a  charming  wife?"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  per- 
sisted. 

"No,"  Myra  said,  gravely.  "She  grew  up  in  a  little 
rolling-mill  town.  ...  I  am  afraid  she  has  never  grown 
much  beyond  it.  I  am  afraid  he  is  no  happier  in  his 
home  than  I  was  at  Woodmansie  Place." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  said  no  more.  She  was  subdued 
and  affectionate  in  her  farewell.  "Remember  that  I  am 
ready  to  be  your  banker,"  she  said,  a  little  plaintively. 
"I  am  very  certain  I  am  not  fit  to  be  your  councilor." 
When  she  had  finally  shut  the  door  on  her  guests  she 
came  back  absently  to  Clarisse,  and,  sitting  down, 
studied  the  toe  of  her  slipper.  "I  have  put  my  foot  in 
it,"  she  said. 

"Qu'y  a-t-il,  madame?" 

"I  have  put  my  foot  in  it,  Clarisse,"  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice  repeated,  soberly,  and  quite  forgetful  of  the 
French  language. 

Clarisse  dropped  on  her  knees  to  examine  Mrs.  Du 
Pont-Maurice's  small  slippers,  and  then  the  floor.  "But 
I  find  nothing,  madame — the  carpet — there  is  nothing 
there." 

249 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Her  mistress  stared  down  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then 
she  laughed  ruefully.  "Never  mind,  Clarisse — you  will 
not  find  it." 

"'It,'  madame—  ?" 

"My  good  sense,  girl — my  moral  sense,  I  should 
say.  It  is  quite  the  thing  to  play  with  marriage  these 
days,  and  to-night  I  have  accomplished  about  as  much 
mischief  as  is  possible  in  one  evening.  The  man  is  ut- 
terly in  love — both  are  .  .  .  and  she  is  hovering — she  does 
not  know  where." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

JANNISS  watched  the  limousine  that  bore  Myra 
mingle  and  then  become  indistinguishable  from  the 
other  lights  and  shadows  of  the  Drive.  He  stood  for  a 
time  on  the  sidewalk,  waiting  for  an  omnibus.  Then, 
with  the  desire  for  motion  that  excitement  causes,  he 
crossed  to  the  park  side  of  the  Drive;  he  could  walk  until 
an  omnibus  picked  him  up.  It  was  not  too  cold  for 
walking. 

Two  blocks  farther  down  he  met  Alyth.  Alyth  was 
not  walking;  he  was  standing  firmly  planted,  arms 
crossed,  looking  down  at  the  river.  The  water  reflected 
the  blue-black  sky,  its  opaqueness  as  well  as  its  gossamer 
shimmer  of  iridescence,  the  radiance  cast  by  the  huge  glow- 
worm city  upon  the  high  strata  of  fog  that  hid  the  stars. 
In  all  the  inky  canopy  there  did  not  gleam  a  single  star. 
The  river  twisted  along  stealthily,  like  some  huge  black 
serpent  whose  motion  would  be  imperceptible  but  for 
the  ripple  of  its  iridescent  skin.  It  was  the  strings  of 
river  lights  that  made  the  slow  motion  apparent. 

"Hello,  Alyth!"  Jannivss  said.  "Are  you  also  waiting 
to  be  picked  up  by  the  omnibus?" 

Alyth  wheeled,  his  surprise  evident.  "You,  Janniss? 
.  .  .  No,  farther  down  I  meant  to  cross  over  to  Central 
Park.  I've  not  walked  my  three  miles  to-day." 

"Let  me  walk  with  you,  then — as  long  as  you  keep  to 
the  Drive." 

"Certainly."  Alyth  was  glad  that  Janniss  did  not 
propose  to  walk  farther  with  him.  He  wanted  to  be 
17  251 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

alone.     He  was  in  no  mood  for  conversation,  and  least 
of  all  with  Janniss. 

"You've  been  looking  at  the  water,"  Janniss  said,  as 
they  started  off  together.  "It's  dully  luminous  to- 
night, like  the  queer  sky  above  us.  It's  a  bit  eery. 
I've  seen  the  same  effect  before;  but  I  have  never 
tried  to  paint  it." 

Janniss  wanted  to  talk,  and  if  possible  on  the  subject 
that  engrossed  him.  When  he  met  Alyth  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  Alyth  might  be  helpful,  he  knew 
both  Milenberg  and  St.  Claire  so  well.  Since  their  meet- 
ing at  Woodmansie  Place  the  spring  before  he  and  Alyth 
had  seen  something  of  each  other,  an  acquaintance  that 
had  been  mostly  of  Alyth's  seeking.  Janniss's  studio 
was  on  Fifty-seventh  Street,  and  when  Alyth  stayed  the 
night  in  the  city  he  usually  stopped  at  the  Great  North- 
ern, but  a  few  doors  away.  He  sometimes  dropped  into 
Janniss's  studio  in  the  late  afternoon  and  smoked  with 
him  for  an  hour.  Janniss  had  acquired  a  liking  for  the 
secretive,  silent  man  whose  passion  for  accomplishment 
equaled  his  own. 

Alyth  said  nothing,  and  they  walked  in  silence  for  a 
time.  Janniss  wanted  to  introduce  his  subject,  and  did 
so  finally,  very  directly. 

"Alyth,  you  know  those  two — Milenberg  and  St. 
Claire.  What  is  going  to  be  the  outcome — with  Mrs. 
St.  Claire?" 

"Am  I  a  diviner?"  Alyth  hid  his  hot  irritation  under 
brevity. 

But  once  started,  Janniss  was  not  to  be  checked.  He 
was  too  tensely  in  earnest.  "Will  her  father  help  her 
out,  Alyth?  .  .  .  He  will  have  to,  surely.  His  hand  will 
be  forced  sooner  or  later." 

Alyth  glanced  sharply  at  the  young  man's  clean-cut 
features  that  gleamed  white  in  their  setting  of  black  coat 
and  hat.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

252 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"I  mean  that  any  man  who  sees  much  of  Myra  St. 
Claire  will  want  her." 

"I'd  trust  her  under  any  such  circumstances — she's  an 
innately  virtuous  woman." 

"It's  my  reading  of  her,  too,"  Janniss  returned  with 
conviction.  "Nevertheless,  she's  so  completely  feminine 
that  some  man  will  love  her  to  distraction,  and  not  rest 
till  he  gets  her." 

It  was  Alyth's  own  reading  of  Myra  St.  Claire.  "He'll 
have  his  nerve  about  him;  she's  not  free,"  Alyth  retorted, 
thickly.  He  shoved  down  his  coat  collar,  as  if  it  was  its 
touch  against  his  lips  that  obstructed  his  speech. 

"Every  man  has  who  ventures  successfully.  .  .  .  What's 
the  good  of  pretending  that  things  are  not  as  they  are?" 
Janniss  demanded.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  that  half 
the  marriages  after  divorce  are  arranged  before  the  law 
has  had  its  say.  And  in  this  case  you  know  the  circum- 
stances. There  never  was  a  more  utter  misalliance  of 
natures  than  in  that  marriage." 

"True  enough;  but  even  the  adventurous  must  have 
something  to  go  on.  There  are  mighty  few  men  who 
propose  marriage — or  the  other  thing — to  a  married 
woman  without  the  aid  of  encouragement."  Suspicion 
was  rampant  in  Alyth ;  he  was  scorching  with  it.  "What 
are  you  going  on?"  was  what  his  question  meant,  and 
that  Janniss  was  too  engrossed  to  recognize. 

"It's  simply  that  Myra  St.  Claire  feels  free,  and  every 
man  who  comes  near  her  will  sense  that.  He  doesn't 
need  any  other  encouragement.  I  saw  her  at  Woodman- 
sie  Place — and  so  did  you — and  you  saw  how  it  was  to- 
night. She  has  never  said  an  intimate  word  to  me,  but 
at  Woodmansie  Place  it  was  plain  enough  she  felt  tied, 
and  hated  it.  Now  she  has  shaken  the  whole  thing  off. 
She  looks  at  it  this  way:  she  and  St.  Claire  are  not  one — 
they  couldn't  be  made  one  by  a  thousand  ceremonies — 
so  their  bond  is  a  mere  legal  form  that  can  be  legally 

253 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

revoked.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  her  freedom  of 
thought  or  feeling.  I  haven't  her  word  for  it — all  this 
is  guesswork,  but  I'm  sure  I'm  right." 

It  was  Alyth's  own  conclusion,  yet  he  maintained, 
"A  man's  guesswork  about  a  woman  is  apt  to  be 
faulty." 

"I'd  wager  my  head  I'm  right!  Myra  St.  Claire  feels 
free,  and  if  a  woman  feels  free  she  can  be  won.  She  has  simply 
returned  to  her  maiden  state — plus  experience.  .  .  .  What 
makes  all  this  prearrangement  that  goes  on  possible? 
Just  that  same  feeling  she  has!" 

The  suspicion  that  had  burnt  Alyth  had  quieted.  He 
drew  a  freer  breath.  "Yes,  the  psychology  of  the  woman 
who  separates  from  her  husband  has  changed  in  the  last 
few  years — just  as  the  reasons  for  separation  have  multi- 
plied. And  it  has  grown  out  of  the  discovery  of  a  whole 
new  set  of  needs  in  marriage." 

"I  was  brought  up  in  an  old-fashioned  family,"  Janniss 
continued,  tensely,  "  but  if  winning  the  woman  I  wanted 
depended  on  new-fashioned  methods,  I'd  stomach  them. 
...  I  know  one  thing:  before  I'd  let  my  work  go  to  pieces 
because  of  love  for  a  woman  whose  matrimonial  knot 
could  be  untied,  I  would  face  a  dozen  Milenbergs." 

He  had  unconsciously  stated  his  case,  and  again  Alyth 
studied  the  white  blot  that  was  his  face.  The  guardian- 
ship of  Myra's  welfare  that  had  gone  hand  in  hand  with 
Alyth's  own  increasing  desire  had  taken  the  place  of  jeal- 
ous suspicion.  His  art  came  first  with  Karl  Janniss — 
did  he  also  want  to  use  Myra  as  a  means  to  an  end?  He 
could  easily  have  forced  Janniss's  confidence;  but  it  was 
the  last  thing  he  wanted.  As  it  was,  it  would  be  a  ques- 
tionable thing  to  meddle  in  the  matter,  but  to  betray  a 
man's  confidence  was  beyond  Alyth.  A  confidence  would 
effectually  tie  his  hands. 

"As  long  as  we  make  marriage  a  mere  vehicle — oiled 
by  passion — in  which  to  trundle  along  our  ulterior  mo- 

254 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

tives,  I  suppose  we  will  have  our  present  state  of  matri- 
monial chaos,"  he  observed,  cuttingly. 

But  Janniss  was  not  seeing  his  need  in  that  light. 
"There  is  certainly  a  deal  about  marriage  as  it  is  prac- 
tised that's  revolting,"  he  agreed.  "I've  never  wanted  it 
— I've  been  afraid  of  it.  But  the  Lord  knows  I  need 
something — my  work's  going  to  pieces.  I  haven't  painted 
a  decent  stroke  in  eleven  months."  His  voice  deepened 
into  passion  when  he  spoke  of  his  work. 

Alyth  instantly  made  the  calculation;  eleven  months 
ago  they  were  both  at  Woodmansie  Place.  "Well,  that's 
all  well  enough,  a  good  reason  for  marrying — provided 
you  make  the  reason  plain  to  the  woman  you  want 
to  marry.  A  clear  understanding  beforehand  —  that's 
what  women  seem  to  be  demanding  now."  Alyth  care- 
fully eliminated  the  appearance  of  sarcasm  from  the 
speech. 

"It  wouldn't  be  my  only  reason,  by  any  means!"  Jan- 
niss said,  with  a  quick-drawn  breath. 

Alyth  judged  not  from  what  he  had  observed. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  time;  then  Janniss  re- 
ferred to  Milenberg  again.  "Alyth,  you  know  the  two 
pretty  well.  Is  it  St.  Claire  has  a  hold  on  Milenberg,  or 
Milenberg  on  St.  Claire?" 

"I  have  no  means  of  knowing." 

"It  was  plain  enough  to  me  that  that  marriage  ce- 
mented a  bargain  of  some  sort.  Those  two  were  as  thick 
as  thieves  at  Woodmansie  Place." 

"They  are  still.  Milenberg  is  not  one  who  will  let  a 
little  domestic  trifle  such  as  his  daughter's  affair  with 
St.  Claire  interfere  with  business." 

"His  daughter  may  assert  herself,  however.  She  seems 
to  have  gotten  her  way  so  far." 

"That's  possible.  .  .  .  But  if  I  was  the  man  who  wanted 
Myra  St.  Claire  I  think  I'd  not  be  in  too  much  haste. 
I'd  be  pretty  sure  of  the  genuineness  of  what  I  had  to 

255 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

offer  her,  first  of  all.  She  has  had  one  bitter  lesson — 
she's  going  to  be  more  clear-sighted  a  second  time." 

"And  who  but  a  cad  would  deceive  her!"  Janniss  ex- 
claimed, hotly.  "It  takes  a  St.  Claire  to  do  a  thing  like 
that." 

"A  man  may  easily  deceive  himself  as  to  his  motives, 
though." 

They  had  come  several  blocks  together,  and  Alyth 
paused.  His  endurance  had  been  tested  to  the  limit. 
The  thing  had  followed  on  hours  of  prolonged  tension; 
he  was  being  asked  to  help  another  man  to  a  woman  who 
in  his  dreams  he  had  called  his,  but  to  whom  he  had  no 
right  whatever,  not  even  the  possibility  of  a  right,  a  little 
circumstance  of  which  he  had  been  poignantly  conscious 
all  evening.  Myra  might  "feel  free";  he  certainly  did 
not. 

"I'm  going  across  to  the  Park  now,"  he  said  in  a  voice 
he  compelled  to  casualness.  "I'll  come  in  to  see  you  one 
of  these  afternoons,  Janniss,  if  I  may,  so  good  night  to 
you.  .  .  .  There's  an  omnibus  bearing  down  on  us,  so  you 
will  be  leaving  me  anyhow."  And  he  swung  off. 

But  as  Alyth  strode  along  he  swore  passionately: 
"Damn  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice!  What  a  night's  work!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"  l_JM!"  Milenberg  said,  looking  around  him.    "You've 

11  put  up  a  good  bluff,  Myra — I'll  say  that  for  you. 
But  aren't  you  about  tired  of  it?" 

He  had  come  in  with  a  casual  greeting,  as  if  he  had 
parted  from  his  daughter  possibly  an  hour  before.  He 
dropped  his  overcoat  on  a  chair,  and,  drawing  another 
up  to  the  little  center-table,  sat  with  his  arm  thrown 
across  it.  There  was  no  appearance  of  anger  about  him, 
only  a  certain  grimness,  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  big 
affairs  on  his  hands  and  has  paused  for  a  moment  to 
attend  to  a  minor  difficulty  to  which  he  meant  to  give 
short  shrift.  As  Alyth  had  said,  he  did  not  look  well. 
His  color  was  dingy,  the  lines  in  his  face  more  apparent, 
and  he  was  decidedly  thinner. 

"The  couch  is  more  comfortable,  father,"  Myra  said. 
"Won't  you  sit  there?"  She  was  much  relieved  that  he 
had  not  come  in  an  angry  mood.  His  determined  air 
she  did  not  dread  so  much ;  she  had  plenty  of  determina- 
tion with  which  to  meet  it.  And  to  see  him  looking  ill 
was  quite  a  new  experience.  There  was  solicitude  in 
both  her  voice  and  her  eyes. 

He  promptly  resented  it.  "Why  the  couch?"  he  said, 
sharply.  "You  know  I  never  loll  about!" 

"But  you  have  been  ill." 

"Who  told  you?"  he  demanded.  "There's  been  noth- 
ing in  the  papers." 

Myra  hesitated,  fearing  that  she  might  bring  his  dis- 
pleasure upon  Alyth. 

257 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  eyed  her.  "Hosbrock,  of  course.  .  .  .  Somebody 
brought  the  word  on  from  San  Francisco.  But  I'm  on 
hand  all  right — I  showed  myself  on  Wall  Street  yester- 
day. The  U.  M.  M.  won't  slump  just  yet." 

"You  have  been  seriously  ill,  then,  father?" 

"Yes,"  Milenberg  confessed,  grimly.  "They  wanted 
to  operate,  but  I  wouldn't  have  it — not  now.  It  would 
have  been  nuts  to  some  people  to  have  me  laid  by  the 
heels  for  a  spell.  .  .  .  But  mind,  not  a  word  about  it  to 
your  mother!  She  doesn't  know  a  thing  about  it.  If 
she'd  known  she'd  have  come  out  to  me,  and  I  didn't 
want  that.  Your  mother's  a  good  soul — but — well,  it 
wouldn't  have  done,  that's  all." 

Myra  understood;  she  knew  who  was  her  father's 
traveling  companion. 

Milenberg  returned  to  the  matter  in  hand.  "I'm 
rushed  to  death.  I  haven't  had  a  minute  since  I  came  in 
yesterday  morning,  or  I'd  have  been  around  before  to 
hear  your  account  of  yourself.  Before  we  get  down  to 
business  suppose  you  give  it  to  me." 

"Do  I  need  to?"  Myra  inquired.  "You  have  been 
informed." 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  I  knew  you  were  neighboring  with 
the  scarlet  petticoats — that  hotel  just  below  there,  where 
the  nigger  is  shaking  a  rug  out  of  the  window,  is  a  by- 
word. And  the  innocent-looking  dwelling  just  opposite, 
whose  front  door  never  opens,  is  inlaid  with  mirrors 
from  top  to  bottom." 

"If  you  know  of  such  places,  why  not  I?"  Myra  re- 
turned, composedly.  "  If  Irma  and  Ina  knew  a  little  more 
it  would  be  as  well  for  them — they  would  do  some  think- 
ing before  marrying." 

"Oh,  quit!"  her  father  interrupted,  brusquely.  "The 
thing  has  always  been,  is,  and  always  will  be.  What  good 
does  all  this  'knowing'  do  you  women?  One-third  of 
you  are  all  curiosity  on  the  entire  subject  of  man  and 

258 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

woman,  another  third  a  muddle  of  dissatisfaction  that 
makes  you  uncomfortable  to  live  with,  but  doesn't  land  you 
anywhere,  and  the  smaller  third — you're  one  of  them — 
are  a  bunch  of  revolutionaries." 

"Give  us  time,  father;  give  us  time." 

"More  years  than  I  expect  to  live!  .  .  .  What  I  want 
to  hear  about  is  how  you  got  into  Hosbrock's?  On  your 
face,  I'll  be  bound." 

"Partly;   but  it  is  capability  has  kept  me  there." 

"Well,  I'll  have  to  see  Hosbrock,  and  before  I  do  I 
want  the  straight  of  it." 

Myra  gave  him  a  succinct  account,  much  as  he  might 
have  given  it  himself.  Milenberg  listened  closely.  His 
only  changes  of  expression  were  when  she  told  him  of 
Hosbrock's  advances  to  her;  his  brows  came  together 
then.  When  she  gave  him  a  copy  of  her  letter  to  Hos- 
brock, together  with  Hosbrock's  answer,  he  relaxed  into 
a  dry  smile.  He  glanced  at  her  letter  a  second  time. 

"A  bit  peurile  that;  but  you've  got  fight  in  you,  all 
right.  I  thought,  of  course,  you'd  told  Hosbrock  who 
you  were  when  you  went  to  him — it  would  have  been  a 
drawing-card." 

Myra  had  hoped  for  that  comment  from  him.  She 
was  thinking  more  of  her  father  than  of  Hosbrock  when 
she  wrote  the  letter. 

Then  he  thrust  it  aside.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
his  affair.  He  had  come  for  a  purpose,  and  was  pushed 
for  time.  He  came  straight  to  the  point.  "Well,  you've 
had  a  bit  of  experience  that  won't  hurt  you,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  want  you  to  get  out  of  this  now.  Whether  or  not 
you  go  back  to  St.  Claire  eventually,  I  want  you  to  go 
home.  This  sort  of  thing" — his  glance  swept  the  room — 
"is  out  of  the  question."  Then  observant  of  her  steady 
look,  he  nodded.  "It's  damned  nonsense,  I  tell  you!  .  .  . 
I've  let  you  go  on  because  I  judged  it  would  do  you  good 
to  realize  what  you're  up  against.  But  I'm  done  now." 

259 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

His  thin  jaw  had  set,  his  eyes  narrowing  slightly,  for 
Myra's  steady  look  had  not  wavered.  Antagonism  al- 
ways brought  out  a  likeness  in  expression. 

But  she  spoke  smoothly  enough.  "And  if  I  decline 
to  go?" 

"What  good  would  that  do  you?  I  mean  to  fix  Hos- 
brock — you  won't  go  back  there.  Get  any  other  place 
and  I'll  fix  it  the  same  way.  If  you  attempt  any  such 
thing  as  tattling  in  Washington,  I'll  fix  that,  too.  .  .  .  I've 
got  the  cash  behind  me,  Myra,  and  you  have  a  little  loose 
change.  It's  a  fool  trick  trying  to  fight  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  fight  you  unless  you  force  me  to  it," 
Myra  said.  "But  after  what  you  have  said  I  feel  that 
I  am  more  than  ever  in  the  right.  If  it  is  men's  'cash' 
that  coerces  women,  what  women  need  is  cash  of  their 
own,  and  that's  what  I  mean  to  prepare  myself  to  earn — 
'cash.'"  She  had  risen  and  was  standing,  her  hands  at 
her  sides,  Milenberg's  own  attitude  when  facing  a  diffi- 
culty. "My  life  is  not  yours  to  command — or  Justin's. 
If  a  man  commands  a  woman  now  it  is  because  she  allows 
him  to  do  it.  If  I  went  home  I  should  be  as  I  was  when 
a  girl,  more  or  less  helpless  because  you  pay  for  me.  I 
couldn't  bring  myself  to  it.  I  have  longed  for  freedom; 
I've  had  a  taste  of  it,  and  I  like  it.  You  can't  use  the 
economic  whip  on  me,  father.  .  .  .  And  you  shall  not  drive 
me  out  of  employment,  either.  The  right  to  work  be- 
longs to  every  individual.  You'll  not  meddle  with  my 
right." 

"I'll  do  what  I  think  is  for  your  good." 

"I'm  a  woman  grown;  I  am  judge  of  what  is  for  my 
good.  It  is  just  as  much  for  my  good  to  work  as  it  is 
for  Eustace  to  work,  and  that  is  a  thing  you  have  been 
trying  to  persuade  him  to  do  for  years.  Why,  simply 
because  I  am  a  woman,  should  I  be  housed  and  clothed 
and  fed  by  you?" 

"Good  Lord!"  Milenberg  exclaimed  in  sudden  exas- 

260 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

peration.  "I've  got  a  half-dozen  million  and  more. 
Why  the  devil  should  my  daughters  work?  If  you  won't 
live  with  your  husband,  at  least  come  home  where  you 
belong.  I'm  tired  of  your  nonsense,  and  I  mean  to  put 
an  end  to  it!" 

"And  I  mean  to  stay  where  I  am,"  Myra  asserted, 
clearly.  "You  have  brought  it  down  to  a  matter  of 
'cash.'  Well,  I  can  procure  what  cash  I  need." 

"So  Justin  was  right — there  is  a  man  in  the  back- 
ground, after  all."  It  was  a  sneer,  though  edged  with 
anxiety. 

Myra's  lip  curled.  "It  would  have  to  be  a  man, 
wouldn't  it,  father,  when  it  comes  to  a  matter  of  'cash'? 
Another  conviction  of  yours :  a  woman  won't  help  another 
woman — they  are  all  born  enemies  of  one  another,  there- 
fore the  more  dependent  on  man.  That  has  been  and  is 
still  true  in  the  main — unfortunately.  But  in  my  case 
it  happens  to  be  a  woman,  father.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
has  offered  to  let  me  have  what  I  need,  so  you  are  free 
to  help  me  or  not,  as  you  like." 

There  was  perfect  silence  while  Milenberg  measured 
her — her  resolution  and  her  capability.  His  judgment 
was  unerring  in  some  respects,  and  he  was  far  too  good 
a  fighter  to  allow  himself  to  become  enraged  when  fairly 
beaten.  He  was  reflecting  quite  coolly  that  in  spite  of 
her  notions  his  daughter  was  "good  goods";  Eustace 
was  not,  but  Myra  was,  as  he  had  expressed  it  to  himself 
more  than  once,  "on  the  square."  Milenberg  had  the 
respect  for  square  dealing  usual  to  the  man  who  has  not 
always  dealt  squarely.  .  .  .  What  was  it  Myra  had  told 
him  at  Woodmansie  Place? — "Eustace  has  drawn  one  set 
of  conclusions,  I  another."  Eustace  had  certainly  made 
plain  what  his  set  of  conclusions  were,  and  Myra  was 
getting  her  way  because  of  the  conclusions  she  had 
drawn.  .  .  .  His  children  were  giving  him  a  deal  of  trouble. 
If  he  had  it  to  do  over  again  the  last  thing  he'd  do  would 

261 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

be  to  many — children  were  too  great  a  responsibility. 
They  had  a  way  of  looking  you  in  the  face  with  your  own 
eyes — Myra  looked  a  bit  like  him  as  she  stood  there — • 
uncomfortably  so.  And  Eustace.  ...  A  muscle  in  Milen- 
berg's  thin  cheek  twitched  because  of  the  tight  set  of 
his  teeth. 

He  motioned  Myra  to  her  chair.  "Sit  down  and  tell 
me  just  what  it  is  you  want.  ...  I  can't  have  strangers 
seeing  my  children  through.  .  .  .  Now  what  is  it  you 
want?" 

Myra  was  glad  enough  to  sit  down;  she  had  suddenly 
begun  to  shake  from  head  to  foot.  She  had  won  out, 
she  knew  that;  but  now  she  could  scarcely  keep  from 
weeping  from  sheer  nervousness.  It  had  taken  her  the 
better  part  of  the  night  and  day  to  decide  what  to  say 
to  her  father. 

"I — want  you  to — to  realize  first  of  all  that  I  will 
never  go  back  to  Justin." 

"I  knew  that  before  I  came,"  Milenberg  said,  shortly. 
"Your  letter  to  your  mother  convinced  me  of  that.  .  .  . 
What  next?" 

"That  I'm  in  earnest  when  I  say  I'd  rather  live  this 
way — in  this  little  room  always — than  be  dependent  on 
you  or  any  one  else." 

"I'll  grant  it,  though  you're  the  first  woman  that's 
convinced  me  that  such  talk's  more  than  skin-deep. 
I've  known  too  many  women  who  were  looking  for  food 
and  clothes — both  in  marriage  and  out  of  it.  ...  Go 
ahead!" 

"I  want  you  to  understand  what  I  mean  when  I  say 
that  I  don't  want  your  money,  any  part  of  it.  I  have 
always  been  afraid  of  it — it  has  done  no  good  to  any  of 
us.  But  I  do  feel  that  because  you  brought  me  into  the 
world  you  owe  me  something.  I  simply  want  enough 
to  educate  me  to  support  myself." 

"And  last,  but  not  least,  you  want  a  divorce,"  Milen- 

262 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

berg  concluded.     "That  makes  the  list  of  'wants'  com- 
plete, doesn't  it?" 

"I  can  work  better  if  I  am  free.  I  am  an  anomaly  as  it 
is." 

"Of  course.  But  that  is  where  the  pinch  will  come." 
He  sat  as  he  had  sat  since  he  came  in,  his  gaze  on  hers, 
and  Myra  knew  from  his  slightly  filmed  eyes  that  he  was 
thinking  intently.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said, 
finally.  "I'll  give  you  an  income — put  a  sum  in  bank 
for  you  to  draw  on.  Educate  yourself  for  anything  you 
like,  only  choose  something  that  has  a  future  to  it.  As 
you've  made  up  your  mind  to  be  a  free-lance,  be  success- 
ful at  it.  ...  Then  get  yourself  an  apartment  where  you 
can  live  as  you've  been  used  to  living.  Get  some  ser- 
vants, and  pick  up  your  friends.  But,  Myra,"  and  he 
bent  to  her  now,  both  his  look  and  his  voice  emphatic, 
"I  can't  get  you  your  divorce!  It's  not  in  my  hands, 
understand?  Justin  is  the  controlling  force  there.  You 
have  thrown  the  legal  right  to  him,  and  you'll  have  to 
abide  largely  by  his  will  in  the  matter.  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  I  sounded  him  long  ago — it's  not  like 
me  to  be  caught  napping — and  he  is  dead  set  against  it. 
He'll  fight — he'll  take  care  you  get  no  evidence.  It  may 
be  that  your  marriage  is  a  shield  to  keep  off  some  woman 
who  has  a  claim  on  him;  it  may  be  that  he  considers  it  a 
hold  on  me;  it  may  be  a  half-dozen  reasons — it's  not  easy 
to  disentangle  Justin's  reasons — but  this  I  know:  it  will 
take  time,  and  a  long  time,  to  bring  Justin  to  it.  That's 
one  reason  I  tried  to  persuade  you  to  lie  quietly  on  the 
bed  you  have  made." 

"On  the  bed  that  was  made  for  me,"  Myra  said.  "It 
was  money  that  married  me  to  Justin,  and  he  means  it 
shall  be  money  that  shall  separate  me  from  him." 

Milenberg's  lips  twitched  in  a  smile  he  could  not  com- 
pletely control.  She  was  clever,  this  daughter  of  his! 

"Possibly,"  he  returned,  his  voice  at  its  driest;  "but 

263 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

I'm  not  ready  to  square  accounts  with  Justin  yet — I 
can't  square  accounts  with  him  yet.  I  have  no  intention 
of  being  hipped  by  Justin  St.  Claire.  When  the  right 
time  comes  we  shall  see.  What  I  want  you  to  realize  is 
that  it  may  be  a  long  time  coming."  He  rose  with  the  air 
of  the  man  who  has  said  all  that  need  be  said. 

Myra  did  not  retort  that  her  marriage  had  been  a 
bargain,  so  it  might  be  expected  that  her  divorce  would 
also  be.  Let  them  chaffer  over  setting  the  legal  seal  to  a 
separation  that  was  an  accomplished  fact — take  their  time 
over  it.  She  felt  free.  Freedom  was  largely  a  matter  of 
belief. 

She  who  hated  to  fight  had  fought.  She  felt  utterly 
exhausted,  and  received  her  father's  parting  injunctions 
in  silence. 

"Get  out  of  this  at  once,"  he  said.  "Better  go  out  to 
Riverside  Drive  if  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  is  friendly  to 
you.  If  she'll  chaperon  you,  so  much  the  better — it  '11 
give  Justin  that  much  less  of  a  case  against  you,  and  it  '11 
make  it  easier  for  you  while  you're  neither  fish,  flesh, 
feather,  nor  bone." 

He  was  getting  into  his  overcoat  with  some  difficulty, 
and  Myra,  observing  it,  moved  to  help  him. 

"Let  be!"  he  said,  sharply.  "I  can  manage  by  myself! 
It's  just  that  my  shoulders  are  stiff  coming  back  into  this 
climate.  If  you  want  to  do  something,  telephone  down 
and  make  sure  my  limousine's  down  there.  It's  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I've  ridden  round  with  rugs  and  foot- 
warmer.  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll  keep  it  up!  I'd  rather 
go  under  the  sod  than  dodder  about  like  some  I  know!" 

Myra  realized  that  his  sharpness  was  because  of  some 
secret  hurt.  As  he  jerked  his  gloves  on  he  said,  abruptly: 

"I've  been  having  the  devil's  own  time  with  Eustace. 
He  put  my  name  to  paper  while  I  was  helpless  out 
there." 

"Father!" 

264 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Yep,"  Milenberg  said  through  his  teeth.  "A  fairish 
sum,  too." 

"And  mother?"  Myra  asked,  quickly. 

"She  knows  nothing  about  it,  and  I  mean  she  never 
shall.  He's  had  such  a  fright  he'll  be  on  his  good  behavior 
for  a  while.  .  .  .  Eustace  wants  a  fixed  income,  and  per- 
haps he'll  get  it — he  needs  to  be  pensioned — he's  so 
dilapidated;  you're  bound  to  try  out  life  in  your  own 
fashion,  and  I  suppose  will  come  a  cropper,  and  now 
Irma  wants  to  marry  an  Italian  who  has  followed  her  over 
here,  a  man  twice  her  age  who  has  gone  the  pace  and  has 
a  little  pile  of  debts  to  show  for  it.  He  has  a  good  title — 
I've  made  sure  of  that — but  that's  all  he  offers.  What 
Irma  wants  is  to  shake  her  family  altogether."  He 
snarled  a  little.  "A  comforting  lot,  my  children!" 

Myra  had  nothing  to  say;  the  truth  would  certainly 
not  be  comforting.  His  children  were  the  logical  products 
of  the  home  in  which  they  had  been  reared.  Why  should 
James  Milenberg's  son  shrink  particularly  from  putting 
his  father's  name  to  paper?  He  was  fourteen  when  his 
father's  name  had  figured  in  head-lines  in  every  news- 
paper in  the  country — old  enough  to  draw  his  own  con- 
clusions. 

"I'm  as  good  at  spending  money  as  the  governor  is  at 
making  it,"  Eustace  had  once  told  Myra,  airily.  "What 
is  the  old  gentleman  kicking  about?  He's  pinched  every 
pocket  he  could.  I'm  just  handing  it  out  again — putting 
it  into  circulation." 

Poor  Eustace !  And  little  Irma  wanted  passionately  to 
get  away  entirely  from  her  environment;  as  she  saw  it 
marriage  was  the  only  way  out. 

But  her  father's  hard,  lined  face  with  its  look  of  illness 
and  disgust  also  appealed  to  Myra.  "I  am  very  sorry 
about  Eustace,  and  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  caused  you 
anxiety,  father,"  she  said,  gently.  "I  haven't  wanted  to 
make  trouble." 

265 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"You're  the  least  of  my  troubles,"  Milenberg  returned, 
irritably.  He  gave  her  his  cutting  glance.  "Sure  you've 
been  straight  with  me  in  one  respect — that  you've  got  no 
inkling  around  which  corner  the  next  man  is  waiting  for 
you?" 

Myra's  tired  eyes  widened.  "I  have  assured  you  of 
that  more  than  once.  The  thought  of  marriage  frightens 
me.  If  marriage  has  to  be  as  it  is  with  most  people,  I 
don't  want  it!" 

Milenberg  laughed  shortly.  "I  wonder  how  long  you 
can  live  without  it!  ...  Well,  as  things  are,  if  ever  you 
suspect  which  corner,  take  the  opposite  turning.  Better 
shy  from  that  complication,"  he  advised,  as  he  went  out. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MYRA  absolutely  refused  to  be  burdened  with  an 
establishment.  "Why  should  I  be  harassed  by  ten 
rooms  and  the  oversight  of  servants?  I  want  just  space 
enough  to  live  comfortably  in  and  one  maid,"  Myra  had 
argued.  "These  huge  establishments  people  crave  are 
nothing  but  advertisements.  They  make  troubled  wom- 
en like  my  mother,  or  such  as  I  appeared  to  be  at  Wood- 
mansie  Place,  cool  and  calculating,  determinedly  advertis- 
ing a  prosperity  we  did  not  possess.  I  have  no  patience 
with  our  practice  of  advertising  both  what  we  have  and 
what  we  have  not,  but  wish  the  world  to  think  we  have." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  Milenberg  said,  finally.  "There's 
no  reason  my  daughter  should  not  live  just  as  well  as 
Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice;  but  have  your  own  way.  I 
suppose  you  will  end  by  being  a  rampant  socialist." 
Then,  with  the  keenness  that  never  let  slip  an  interesting 
admission,  he  questioned:  "I  suppose  Justin  was  putting 
a  bold  front  on  at  Woodmansie  Place?  I've  never  been 
able  to  determine  just  what  Justin's  assets  are.  I  judged 
him  worth  taking  at  face  value." 

Myra  was  instantly  non-committal.  "Justin  never 
made  a  confidante  of  me." 

Milenberg  said  no  more;  he  only  smiled  a  little  in  his 
dry  way. 

So  Myra  was  allowed  to  settle  herself  in  a  moderate- 
sized  apartment  in  one  of  the  less-imposing  structures  on 
Riverside  Drive,  with  but  one  servant,  no  motor,  and  an 
absence  of  ostentation  generally. 
18  267 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  promptly  came  to  inspect 
Myra's  choice.  Conjointly  with  her  charitable  interests, 
her  avowedly  feministic  bias,  and  her  substratum  of  con- 
servatism, Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  was  innately  a  social 
intrigante.  It  was  plain  to  Myra  that  she  had  social 
designs  upon  her.  The  little  lady's  restless  spirit  was  for 
ever  looking  about  for  an  interest,  and  Myra  chanced  to 
interest  her.  Myra  thoroughly  liked  her,  though  she 
did  not  take  her  very  seriously,  the  little  lady's  remarks 
on  love  and  marriage  most  lightly  of  all. 

She  evidently  expected  to  find  her  protegee  in  a  more 
elaborate  setting.  "My  dear — what  a  little  nest!"  she 
said,  with  a  note  of  doubt. 

Myra  repeated  what  she  had  said  to  her  father. 

4 'Sans  doute!"  She  lifted  her  lorgnette  for  a  more 
deliberate  survey,  then  nodded  her  plumes  decidedly. 
"It  is  all  quite  true.  We  Americans  are  disgusting.  We 
are  a  walking  advertisement.  Still,  I  have  friends,  some 
wealthy,  and  some  with  nothing  whatever,  who  think 
just  as  you  do.  Your  ideas  are  really  quite  popular,  only 
so  seldom  put  into  practice.  .  .  .  And  one  is  so  liable  to  be 
disillusioned  by  the  loudest  advocates  of  simplicity. 
There  was  a  most  interesting  man  who  used  to  call  upon 
me  last  winter.  He  was  a  tremendous  advocate  of  the 
simple  life.  He  disclosed  to  me  how  he  laundered  his 
own  linen.  His  collar  was  given  its  circular  effect  by 
being  wrapped  about  a  large  granite-ware  cup,  and  ironed 
by  his  own  hands — the  same  cup  in  which  he  prepared 
his  breakfast  eggs.  He  lived  in  one  room  in  a  model 
tenement  somewhere  near  the  East  River.  He  had  a 
great  contempt  for  wealth.  The  American  'automobile 
rush'  was  hated  by  him."  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  sighed. 
"However,  this  summer  he  married,  and  to  my  amaze- 
ment I  find  that  he  is  now  enjoying  an  ornate  apartment 
on  Park  Avenue.  He  wears  yellow  gloves  and  spats, 
and  daily  rides  in  a  magnificent  car.  His  wife  is  a  florid 

268 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

person  much  older  than  himself,  whose  first  husband  made 
money  in  chocolate  creams." 

Myra  laughed.     "I  shall  not  backslide." 

"No — you  are  pre-eminently  fitted  for  an  artist's  wife. 
You  would  make  an  adorable  wife  for  a  successful  artist." 
Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  threw  off  the  suggestion  casually, 
commenting  in  the  same  breath:  "The  more  I  look  about 
me  the  better  I  like  your  nest,  my  dear.  That  bay  of 
the  window  with  its  view  of  the  river!  A  little  room  in 
itself — just  space  for  a  divan  and  pillows,  and  your  tea- 
table.  And  this  drawing-room,  with  a  fireplace  that 
actually  burns!"  She  waxed  enthusiastic.  "When  you 
have  given  this  your  atmosphere  of  warmth  and  tendresse! 
I  am  really  charmed.  You  will  be  an  interesting  person 
— young  and  beautiful,  and  with  your  ideals!" 

How  much  of  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  chatter  was 
earnest,  and  how  much  a  mischievous  testing  of  her,  Myra 
could  not  tell.  Still,  she  had  no  intention  of  living  her 
life  according  to  the  little  lady's  direction,  any  more  than 
by  her  father's  ruling.  The  future  was  certain  to  have 
its  embarrassments,  so  Myra  gave  warning  promptly: 

"You  forget  that  I  shall  have  very  little  time  in  which 
to  be  'an  interesting  person.'  There  are  three  things  I 
mean  to  avoid  in  this  new  life  I  am  making  for  myself: 
extravagance,  the  demands  of  society,  and  sex  play. 
Love  may  come  to  me  some  time  in  the  long  future,  but  I 
don't  want  to  think  of  it.  Marriage  frightens  me.  I  want 
to  stand  free  of  it  all.  A  woman  should  be  able  to  do  so." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  made  no  comment.  She  asked, 
instead:  "Tell  me  about  your  work.  Do  you  still  go  on 
with  the  sympathy-craving  person  of  whom  you  told  me?" 

"No,  I  have  apprenticed  myself  to  a  woman  who  does 
some  of  the  most  artistic  interior  decoration  in  the  city — 
Miss  Wentworth.  For  a  year  I  give  my  services  in  ex- 
change for  practical  training.  What  I  want  is  a  partner- 
ship— finally." 

269 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"You  will  succeed.  I  predict  it.  But  commeasurate 
•with,  your  success  will  be  your  need  for — companionship. 
.  .  .  How  does  your  father  say  Justin  is  disposed?" 

"He  will  not  free  me." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  nodded.  "That  was  the  im- 
pression I  received  from  Justin  himself,"  she  said,  gravely. 
"I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you,  but  perhaps  it  is  as  well  I 
should — I  received  a  visit  from  Justin  yesterday.  I  spoke 
very  plainly  to  him,  but  he  was  not  to  be  moved.  Still, 
it  is  Justin's  rule  in  life  to  say  the  thing  he  does  not  think, 
so  I  hoped  for  a  different  verdict  from  your  father." 

Myra  had  flushed  painfully.  "Justin  will  not  come 
here?" 

"No,  no,  he  is  too  wise  for  that.  He  will  not  disturb 
you.  He  says  he  is  here  for  two  days  only,  and  on 
business.  It  is  our  servants,  however,  who  know  the 
innermost  workings  of  our  being.  Clarisse  exchanges  the 
secrets  of  my  heart  with  Adele's  tirewoman.  Justin,  it 
seems,  has  visited  Adele." 

Myra  was  silent. 

"Justin  has  a  fever  of  some  sort,  my  dear.  What  is  it 
makes  Justin  hectic — money?"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
asked,  abruptly. 

Myra's  answer  was  the  same  as  to  her  father.  "  I  never 
had  Justin's  confidence."  She  had  the  feeling  of  sickness 
that  any  reminder  of  St.  Claire  occasioned.  St.  Claire 
hectic!  The  recollections  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  re- 
mark stirred  made  her  shrink. 

Her  visitor,  noting  her  expression,  immediately  plunged 
into  talk  of  furniture,  curtains,  and  color  schemes.  "It 
is  most  fortunate  you  have  been  given  a  free  hand  in 
decoration,"  she  declared.  "Your  good  taste  will  make 
this  beautiful."  After  putting  her  car,  and  her  servants, 
and  anything  she  possessed  at  Myra's  disposal,  she  took 
her  departure.  She  had  wanted  extremely  to  ask  if  Myra 
had  seen  Alyth  again,  for  she  was  still  feeling  guilty. 

270 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Janniss  she  knew  was  a  frequent  visitor.  Well,  that  was 
a  much  safer  affair — a  very  good  thing  it  might  prove  in 
the  end.  She  would  take  Myra  out  in  society,  help  her 
to  meet  other  men,  divert  her;  it  was  her  duty  after  having 
worked  greater  mischief  than  she  had  intended. 

"With  my  mind's  eye  I  see  you  in  a  charming  little 
home,"  she  said  in  farewell.  "Remember,  you  are  to 
come  to  me  next  Sunday  afternoon.  I  have  asked  people 
to  meet  you." 

Myra  sighed  as  she  went  back  to  her  house-settling. 
The  loneliness  of  the  last  two  months  had  certainly  been 
offset  by  compensations. 

In  the  following  weeks  Myra  met  many  of  Mrs.  Du 
Pont-Maurice's  friends.  The  little  lady  had  a  somewhat 
heterogeneous  acquaintance  that  she  handled  with  con- 
summate skill.  Educators,  social  workers,  suffragists, 
feminists,  and  advocates  of  ideas  in  general;  artists, 
authors,  journalists  came  to  her  house;  but  always  in 
carefully  assorted  groups.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had 
a  natural  aptitude  for  selection  that  saved  her  from  being 
overrun.  She  made  little  effort  to  corral  celebrities,  the 
result  being  that  she  numbered  a  few  among  her  friends. 

She  was  also  connected  with  quite  a  different  set  of 
people,  the  kind  among  whom  she  had  been  reared,  ultra- 
conventionalists,  thoroughly  intrenched  behind  family 
barriers.  With  their  younger,  restless,  audacious  genera- 
tion she  was  quite  at  home.  She  was  cognizant  of  their 
escapades  and  their  scandals;  she  gave  them  shrewd 
as  well  as  friendly  advice. 

"They  make  me  yawn  so  delightfully,  the  old  people," 
she  declared  to  Myra,  "and  the  younger  set  interest  me. 
They  are  to-day — why  shut  one's  eyes  to  the  fact?  They 
are  principally  occupied  in  making  up  to  money — much 
as  Justin  has  done." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  was  kin  to  several  "good  old" 
New  York  families.  Her  little  group  of  "family  retain- 

271 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

ere,"  as  she  designated  them,  looked  with  forbearance 
upon  her  mixed  acquaintance. 

"I  manage  to  keep  them  separate,  as  a  general  thing, 
choosing  carefully  the  spice  I  inject  into  the  family 
gatherings,  so  all  goes  well,"  she  explained  to  Myra. 
"They  have  at  last  gotten  over  objecting  to  Riverside 
Drive.  When  I  settled  in  New  York  I  was  unable  to 
see  why  I  should  spend  my  mornings  gazing  at  a  brown- 
stone  front  on  West  Eleventh  when  I  could  have  the 
North  River  to  look  out  upon! ...  I  am  glad  you  are  like- 
minded,  my  dear." 

Myra  met  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  friends,  was  illusive 
with  the  women,  and  charmingly  inaccessible  to  the  men. 
"Work"  was  a  good  excuse  for  not  accepting  many  in- 
vitations. There  were  few  who  found  their  way  into  her 
little  apartment,  for  Myra  foresaw  what  some  of  her 
difficulties  would  be.  Even  in  the  first  weeks  she  sensed 
the  interested  curiosity  of  those  she  met. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  explained  after  her  fash- 
ion: "A  case  of  utter  incompatibility.  There  are  no 
children,  so  of  course  things  will  settle  themselves  quite 
naturally — we  are  becoming  so  sensible.  .  .  .  She  is  the 
daughter  of  James  Milenberg,  you  know,  the  Chicago 
millionaire.  Of  course  she  has  any  amount  of  money 
behind  her,  but  she  has  the  same  idea  as  the  Emperor  of 
Germany — that  every  member  of  his  family  should  learn 
a  trade.  An  interesting  woman,  and  so  clever." 

In  a  way  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  explanations  were 
helpful.  On  the  other  hand,  Myra  was  subjected  to 
much  curious  inspection,  some  of  it  impertinent  and 
harassing.  Women  in  the  main  were  skeptical.  Mrs. 
St.  Claire  was  certainly  either  very  peculiar  or  out  "man- 
hunting."  Why  wasn't  she  in  her  father's  house?  They 
did  not  attach  much  weight  to  her  training  for  a  profession. 
The  daughter  of  a  multi-millionaire!  Just  f adding!  She 
was  too  good-looking  for  her  own  welfare.  There  was  a 

272 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

man  in  the  case,  of  course,  and  a  woman  as  well,  probably 
— the  usual  quadrilateral.  They  smiled  upon  Myra, 
however,  and  asked  her  to  their  entertainments.  If  she 
had  money  at  her  disposal  she  might  be  of  value.  When 
they  saw  how  simply  she  lived  they  were  surprised  and 
hesitant.  Still,  they  could  drop  her  easily  enough  if  it 
wasn't  all  right. 

Men  also  had  their  skeptical  comments  to  make,  and 
quite  irrespective  of  the  fact  that  they  all  found  Myra 
charming.  They  attempted  to  flirt  with  her  just  so  much 
the  more  baldly  because  of  her  anomalous  position.  Myra 
had  set  her  face  against  sex  play.  She  found  that  it  was 
universal — far  more  so  even  than  at  Woodmansie  Place. 
There  were  those  who,  when  well  out  of  their  wives'  hear- 
ing, expressed  a  pointed  interest  in  the  discovery  that  she 
"lived  alone."  Then  there  were  the  undisguised  fortune- 
hunters.  One  foreigner  who  was  that  winter  seeing  much 
of  New  York  society,  on  meeting  Myra  promptly  in- 
quired, "Are  you,  then,  divorced?"  and,  quite  undaunted 
by  her  frigid  glance,  remarked,  "Ah,  the  American  law 
is  so  merciful.  I  hope  I  have  the  pleasure  to  call?"  In 
spite  of  Myra's  reply  he  wrote  her  a  dozen  impassioned 
letters  before  dropping  into  silence. 

Myra  also  had  a  disagreeable  experience  with  Frank  A. 
Hipbard,  one  of  St.  Claire's  friends,  one  of  the  financiers 
she  had  steadily  smiled  upon  during  that  week  of  misery 
she  would  never  forget,  when  St.  Claire  was  using  her  to 
further  his  schemes.  She  met  Hipbard  at  a  dance  at 
Mrs.  Carson  Ostrand's,  to  which  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
took  her,  escorted  by  Janniss.  Mrs.  Carson  Ostrand  be- 
longed to  the  younger  generation  of  the  "family  retain- 
ers," a  willowy,  slumbrous-eyed  woman  whose  sinuosity 
and  low  laugh  were  only  vaguely  familiar  to  Myra  until 
Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  explained:  "Pauline  Ostrand  used 
to  wriggle  and  cough  like  Bernhardt,  and  this  year  it  is 
our  dear  Adele  she  is  patterning  herself  after.  Pauline 

273 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

has  taken  up  Adele,  for  just  what  purpose  I  can't  deter* 
mine,  unless  it  is  simply  to  copy  her." 

At  Mrs.  Carson  Ostrand's  Myra  saw  Adele  Courland 
for  the  first  time  since  coming  to  New  York.  Adele's 
great,  brilliant  eyes  fairly  blazed  with  hate  when  she 
saw  Myra,  then  smoldered  into  satisfaction  when  she 
saw  that  Janniss  was  her  escort,  a  look  that  dulled  into 
almost  animal  fear  on  meeting  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's 
eye.  Compelled  by  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  presence, 
she  shook  hands  with  Myra,  and  Myra  submitted  to  the 
ceremony  with  perfect  composure. 

It  was  just  at  this  juncture  that  Hipbard  presented 
himself,  a  thick-set  man,  immaculately  groomed,  bald,  and 
with  eyes  too  small  for  his  otherwise  pronounced  features. 
Myra  remembered  that  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  about  to 
build  a  wonderful  place  somewhere  near  New  York. 
Myra  thought  it  best  to  dance  with  him  when  he  asked 
her,  and  thoroughly  disliked  the  close  clasp  to  which  he 
subjected  her. 

"  So  St.  Claire  is  in  New  York?"  he  asked,  at  once.  " I 
saw  him  in  Washington  only  a  few  days  ago." 

As  Myra  knew  well,  with  his  kind  it  was  "  business  first," 
women  next.  He  was  instantly  curious  to  know  what 
St.  Claire  was  doing  in  town;  it  was  hardly  possible  that 
he  knew  of  their  separation. 

"  No,  he  is  not  here.  I  am  with  Mr.  St.  Claire's  cousin 
to-night,  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice." 

Evidently  he  did  not  know  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice. 
"Oh,  are  you?  You're  going  to  let  me  see  something  of 
you/while  you  are  here.  St.  Claire  '11  not  object.  He  and 
I  are  pretty  close  pals  these  days.  We  must  have  lunch 
together  some  time,  you  and  I,  and  a  good  talk." 

Myra  knew  that  it  must  be  his  money  that  had  brought 
him  into  this  house,  he  was  so  evidently  of  common 
origin.  He  was  ordinary,  but  very  shrewd.  He  had 
known  perfectly  well  what  had  been  her  use  during  that 

274 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

week,  and  his  deduction  was  natural:  if  she  lent  herself 
to  such  manceuvers  as  St.  Claire's  she  certainly  would  not 
be  averse  to  a  flirtation  during  her  husband's  absence. 
She  might  even  be  capable  of  going  the  lengths;  at  any 
rate,  he  was  on  the  qui  vive. 

Myra's  thoughts  made  her  hot.  She  answered  quietly 
enough,  however.  "If  you  will  tell  me  where  to  send  a 
card  I  shall  be  able  to  give  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  your 
name  for  her  next  day  at  home."  That  would  be  a 
promise  easily  forgotten. 

He  hesitated,  his  brows  coming  together  slightly.  Myra 
had  the  instant  suspicion  that  in  some  way  St.  Claire  was 
beholden  to  this  man  and  she  was  supposed  to  know  of  it 
and  expected  to  make  at  least  the  return  of  amiability. 

"That's  good  of  you,"  he  said,  checked  for  the  moment. 
Then  he  asked:  "Where  does  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
live?  I'll  send  it  to  you." 

Myra  gave  the  address  with  the  discomfort  any  de- 
parture from  openness  always  caused  her.  She  would 
have  to  warn  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice.  She  was  suffering 
for  being  "an  anomaly";  she  hoped  such  incidents 
would  not  be  frequent.  Myra  spent  the  remainder  of 
the  dance  in  parrying  the  many  suggestions  her  partner 
made:  His  house  was  not  finished  yet;  she  must  motor 
out  with  him  to  see  the  site.  Had  she  been  to  the  opera 
yet?  His  box  was  at  her  disposal.  ...  At  the  conclusion 
of  the  dance  she  was  rescued  by  Janniss,  and  felt  duly 
grateful  to  him. 

Myra  had  the  feeling  that  she  had  not  seen  the  last  of 
Frank  Hipbard,  and  her  premonition  proved  correct. 
He  ferreted  out  her  residence,  called  more  than  once  at 
her  apartment,  and,  being  refused  admittance,  telephoned 
her  several  times.  He  had  evidently  investigated  her 
affairs,  and  as  a  result  looked  upon  her  as  a  subject  worthy 
of  further  investigation. 

It  was  part  with  the  testing  and  tempting  Myra  met  with 

275 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

on  all  sides.  Hipbard  was  not  the  only  man  who  at- 
tempted to  thrust  himself  upon  her.  It  made  her  nervous. 
At  times  she  was  frightened.  She  became  as  inaccessible 
to  those  whom  she  did  not  distrust,  but  in  whom  she  de- 
tected too  warm  an  interest.  Courtship  was  not  for  her, 
and  not  so  much  because  she  did  not  feel  free  to  test  the 
men  who  approached  her,  as  because  of  her  shrinking 
from  even  the  thought  of  marriage.  Karl  Janniss  was 
the  only  man  who  saw  much  of  her  during  that  winter, 
except  in  the  most  formal  way.  Men  found  her  inacces- 
sible; even  those  that  found  her  alluring.  There  must  be 
a  reason  for  it,  of  course;  who  was  "the  man"? 

Much  to  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  amusement,  the 
"family  retainers"  were  greatly  taken  with  Mrs.  St. 
Claire.  They  regarded  Myra  far  less  skeptically  than 
those  who  took  a  lighter  view  of  marriage.  More  than 
one  of  them  grieved  over  a  daughter  who  had  returned 
to  her  father's  house,  and  without  the  statutory  excuse. 
They  were  sorry  for  Myra.  Being  somewhat  better  judges 
of  character  than  the  wholly  flippant,  they  pronounced 
her  a  "lady,"  and  proceeded  to  be  "kind "to  her.  The 
elderly  women  reminded  Myra  of  her  mother,  so  she  was 
without  effort  daughterly  with  them.  She  was  invited 
to  sedate  dinners,  family  parties,  mostly,  and  enjoyed  the 
contrast  to  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  more  piquant  en- 
tertainments. There  was  actually  an  air  of  domesticity, 
of  stability  about  these  old  households  in  which  the  single 
union  had  been  determinedly  adhered  to,  that  started 
an  ache  in  Myra's  throat.  It  brought  back  to  her  her 
wedding-night  and  her  passionate  dream  of  herself  as 
a  life-builder.  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps  some  time  in  the  long 
future? 

And  the  next  night  she  would  be  more  than  ever  friend- 
ly with  Janniss — determinedly  friendly.  She  made  it 
quite  plain  to  him  that  they  could  be  nothing  but  friends. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN  sharp  contrast  to  the  placidity  of  the  "family  re- 
tainers" were  the  activities  into  which  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice  carried  Myra  when  she  realized  that  Myra  cared 
little  for  society;  that  she  was  in  truth  a  worker.  She 
took  her  then  to  her  clubs,  to  suffrage  meetings,  to  her 
charities,  and  to  lectures,  into  the  turmoil  of  interests 
woman  has  created  for  herself. 

Women's  clubs  made  no  particular  appeal  to  Myra; 
it  seemed  to  her  they  were  serviceable  principally  to  the 
unemployed  woman.  In  suffrage  she  was  deeply  inter- 
ested; she  was  interested  in  anything  that  gave  woman  a 
wider  opportunity.  She  saw  no  chance  for  any  very 
active  participation,  however;  the  attitude  of  the  suf- 
frage leaders  to  whom  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  introduced 
her  made  that  evident.  They  welcomed  her,  they  wel- 
comed every  recruit;  but  it  was  active  war  they  were 
waging;  they  were  in  need  of  funds  and  of  soldiers  ca- 
pable of  taking  marching  orders.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
was  deep  in  their  councils  because  she  had  both  time  and 
money  to  give.  It  struck  Myra  as  significant  that  they 
had  found  no  new  or  original  plan  in  their  means  to  an 
end;  they  followed  man's  methods  very  exactly.  And 
the  atmosphere  that  was  created  by  all  this  public  activ- 
ity of  women  was  much  the  same  Myra  breathed  in  the 
business  world,  concentrated,  pungent,  unrestful.  Never- 
theless, it  was  life  as  it  was.  Something  entirely  new  must 
grow  out  of  it.  The  peaceful  homes  were  as  much  out 
of  date  as  their  rheumatic  old  butlers. 

And  Myra  was  being  given  illustrations  enough  of  some 

277 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

of  the  problems  a  professional  woman  faces  in  her  com- 
petition with  men.  Miss  Wentworth  imparted  to  Myra 
what  she  considered  the  secret  of  her  success. 

"I've  never  had  a  backache,  nor  a  love-affair,"  she 
said,  in  her  firm,  even  voice  that  was  in  keeping  with 
her  entire  firm-bodied,  clean-complexioned,  and  clearr 
eyed  personality.  "If  the  female  mechanism  is  out  of 
order  a  woman  has  a  double  fight  to  make.  It  will 
down  most  women.  It  will  be  just  as  well  for  the  women 
who  want  to  bear  children  to  see  to  it  that  they  give  their 
daughters  a  healthy  construction.  .  .  .  And  if  a  woman's 
bent  on  success,  she's  got  to  look  on  love  pretty  seriously 
— not  as  a  plaything.  It's  ridiculous,  this  popular  talk 
that  love  should  and  will  become  as  incidental  to  a 
woman  as  to  a  man.  It  never  will  be;  we've  got  the 
children  to  bear.  We're  going  to  do  the  choosing  and 
the  deciding  in  the  matter,  though — have  our  children 
in  marriage  or  out  of  it,  as  we  like.  And  why  shouldn't 
we  when  we  are  beholden  to  no  one  for  our  bread  and 
butter?  .  .  .  It's  my  belief,  though,  that  in  the  immediate 
stage  of  our  development  the  woman  who  can  dispense 
with  the  amatory  altogether  will  be  the  most  successful 
business  woman.  That's  possible  to  some  women — to  the 
majority  it's  not." 

Frank  Hipbard,  having  been  refused  access  to  Myra's 
apartment,  and  finding  her  residential  telephone  well 
guarded  by  a  capable  maid,  had  laid  siege  to  her  at  her 
place  of  business.  Myra  had  been  intensely  annoyed  by  his 
persistence.  He  was  not  to  be  driven  off,  however.  He 
engaged  Miss  Wentworth's  services  for  his  new  home, 
with  the  understanding  that  Myra  should  have  "charge 
of  the  job." 

With  some  embarrassment  Myra  told  Miss  Wentworth 
the  reason  for  Hipbard's  tactics. 

"Well,  do  you  want  to  marry  him — when  you're  free 
to  do  it?"  Miss  Wentworth  asked,  practically. 

278 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"  Marry  Frank  Hipbard! .  .  .  Nor  does  he  want  to  marry 
me;  he  simply  wants  to  see  how  much  there  is  in  the 
situation  for  him." 

"Of  course.  .  .  .  You  go  ahead  and  decorate  his  house. 
Keep  him  at  arm's-length  and  attend  strictly  to  business. 
One  thing  we  business  women  have  to  learn  is  to  forget 
our  old  sex  view  of  men.  Then  by  and  by  men  will  lose 
their  predatory  view  of  women. .  . .  And  that  doesn't  mean 
that  a  business  woman  need  become  unattractive.  Her 
attractiveness  is  just  as  much  a  business  asset  as  a  good 
presence  is  to  a  man,  but  so  long  as  we're  sex-conscious 
the  men  we  rub  elbows  with  will  be  self-consciously  pred- 
atory. .  .  .  Never  fear — we'll  decorate  Mr.  Hipbard's 
house,  and  give  him  his  money's  worth  the  same  as  any 
firm  of  men,  and  the  business  side  of  Mr.  Hipbard's  brain 
knows  that  perfectly  well." 

Myra  applied  some  of  Miss  Wentworth's  council  to  her 
relations  with  Janniss — she  attended  strictly  to  friend- 
ship. If  ever  a  man  had  a  woman's  attitude  clearly  de- 
fined to  him,  Janniss  had.  Still,  the  desire  for  warmth 
and  closeness  and  intimacy — for  intimate  masculine  com- 
panionship— the  ache  that  frequently  constricted  Myra's 
throat — tempted  her  sorely  to  draw  upon  the  lovable  in 
Janniss.  He  called  almost  irresistibly  upon  her  tender- 
ness— the  big  boy  in  him,  as  well  as  the  craving,  eager 
artist,  needed  so  much.  And  a  caress  from  him  would 
have  been  sweet. 

Myra's  own  state  of  mind  set  her  to  investigating  a 
little  the  women  she  knew  who  were  "out  for  themselves," 
and  she  found  that  Miss  Wentworth's  type  was  rare. 
Universally  the  working-woman,  the  self-supporting  wom- 
an, craved  her  masculine  complement  more  intensely, 
with  more  singleness  of  purpose,  and  with  far  more  care 
in  selection  than  her  idle  sister — such  women  as  Myra  had 
known  at  Woodmansie  Place,  for  instance.  The  desire 
might  be  deeply  overlaid,  or  frightened  into  the  back- 

279 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

ground  by  some  painful  experience,  still  it  was  there. 
And  to  Myra  it  seemed  quite  as  intensely  physical  a 
desire  as  man's,  but  accompanied  by  the  preservative, 
conservative  instinct,  woman's  unconscious  recognition  of 
her  capacity  for  motherhood. 

Now  that  her  work  was  less  alloyed  with  anxiety,  Myra 
thought  more  frequently  of  her  own  problem.  Such  a 
friendship  as  hers  with  Janniss  was  a  possible  thing;  she 
felt  quite  free  to  indulge  in  even  a  more  intimate  comrade- 
ship with  a  man  who  knew  her  background  and  her  pres- 
ent difficulties,  who  understood  as  well  as  Janniss  appeared 
to  understand  her;  but  to  most  men  her  position  ap- 
peared so  equivocal,  so  tempting  an  opportunity  for 
encroachment,  that  in  spite  of  her  feeling  of  freedom  she 
was  made  uncomfortable.  But  there  was  no  prospect  of 
a  change.  In  writing  from  Washington  her  father  gave 
a  brief  sentence  to  the  subject,  "Nothing  doing  with 
Justin — he's  unchangeable." 

And  her  mother  in  her  letters  now  never  mentioned 
Myra's  difficulties.  She  evidently  regarded  matters  as 
indefinitely  at  a  standstill.  Irma  was  going  to  marry  her 
Italian  suitor,  and  Mrs.  Milenberg  was  filled  with  an- 
other anxiety.  The  terms  of  the  alliance  appeared  to 
shock  Mrs.  Milenberg.  Myra  received  an  outburst  of 
indignation  from  Ina  on  the  subject. 

"Irma  is  simply  buying  some  things  she  thinks  she 
wants,"  she  wrote.  "It's  not  marrying — the  thing  she  is 
doing;  it's  just  a  'deal.'  She  is  putting  nothing  lovely 
into  her  marriage.  What  can  she  expect  to  get  out  of  it  ? 
I  think  it  is  dreadful!"  Myra  had  always  thought  of 
Ina  as  a  child,  but  evidently  she  was  growing  up;  she 
was  beginning  to  do  her  own  thinking. 

It  was  some  little  time,  well  into  March,  before  Mrs. 
Du  Pont-Maurice  came  to  Myra  with  the  inevitable  re- 
port: "My  dear,  the  news  of  your  separation  is  circulat- 
ing now  among  the  people  you  knew  at  Woodmansie 

280 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

Place,  and  Justin  is  having  a  deal  of  sympathy  both  mas- 
culine and  feminine  heaped  upon  him.  You  are  a  very 
black  sheep  in  their  estimation.  In  spite  of  his  irre- 
proachable exterior,  every  woman  has  suspected  Justin  of 
having  for  years  secretly  broken  the  Seventh  Command- 
ment; but  there  he  is  a  man,  poor  dear!  But  you  have 
committed  the  much  more  unpardonable  sin.  You  have 
set  at  naught  their  beautiful  little  ideals:  woman's  pre- 
ordination to  suffering;  her  mission  as  regenerator  of  the 
man  she  marries — the  somewhat  amusing  combination 
of  passivity  and  angelic  activity,  the  idyllic  conceptions 
fostered  by  man  that  have  so  long  possessed  woman's 
imagination.  In  short,  you  have  set  at  naught  'woman's 
sphere.'  In  addition  you  are  accused  of  ambition,  ex- 
travagance, and  coldness.  They  are  quite  bitter  in  their 
disapprobation  of  you." 

Myra  had  learned  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  exceedingly 
well.  The  little  woman  was  genuinely  fond  of  her,  and 
deeply  interested  in  her  future.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
was  not  birdlike  when  disturbed;  she  was  inclined  then 
to  be  oracular.  There  was  something  still  to  be  said. 

So,  though  her  color  rose,  Myra  asked,  quietly,  "And 
what  more?" 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  hesitated.  "Oh,  people  are 
always  ready  to  supply  a  motive." 

Myra  regarded  her  steadily.  "I  left  my  husband  for 
love  of  another  man?" 

"Yes—" 

"Who?" 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  hesitated  again.  She  wished 
intensely  that  she  had  never  aspired  to  be  a  shaper  of 
destiny.  "Possibly  the  suggestion  emanated  from  Jus- 
tin. It  is  Adele  who  is  talking  here.  I  shall  have  a  little 
word  to  say  to  Adele  Courland." 

Myra  had  often  thought  of  St.  Claire's  accusation,  the 
grip  of  his  hand  on  her  wrist.  And  as  a  result  she  had 

281 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

taken  a  certain  satisfaction  in  her  blameless  friendship 
with  Janniss.  "Karl  Janniss,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  even- 
ly. "I  hardly  thought  Justin  would  dare — a  thing  as 
foundationless  as  that."  She  looked  down  at  her  hand, 
living  over  the  recollection. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  studied  her  averted  face  curi- 
ously. Had  she  really  no  idea  that  Janniss  loved  her? 
If  she  had  not,  Janniss  had  behaved  more  admirably  than 
most  men  would  under  the  circumstances.  It  was  a  de- 
cided bit  of  scandal  that  was  being  circulated;  it  was  going 
to  make  it  difficult  for  Myra  socially.  .  .  .  Should  she  tell 
Myra  that  Janniss  was  in  love  with  her?  How  much 
would  it  be  best  for  her  to  say?  .  .  .  She  decided  to  say 
very  little — let  things  take  their  course.  Something  was 
sure  to  come  of  it  all. 

"Possibly  it  was  your  coming  to  New  York  that  has 
given  some  sort  of  foundation  to  the  report." 

"Adele  and  Justin  simply  judge  me  by  themselves," 
Myra  said.  She  looked  full  at  her  visitor,  her  eyes  dilated 
as  always  when  moved.  "Janniss  has  proved  himself 
my  good  friend,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  her  father's 
decision.  "  I  have  no  intention  of  parting  with  his  friend- 
ship." 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should.  When  the  thing 
comes  to  Janniss's  ears,  if  he  is  the  man  I  think  he  is,  he 
will  mention  it  to  you — or  you  will  forestall  him  and  speak 
of  it  to  him,"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  advised,  smoothly. 

"  Une  edaircissement  naturelle Then  your  father  should 

be  consulted."  She  could  not  refrain  from  putting  that 
small  finger  in  her  neighbor's  pie. 

"There  is  nothing  to  clear  up,"  Myra  returned,  her 
voice  vibrant  with  feeling.  "There  is  nothing  between 
Janniss  and  me.  We  are  friends,  and  so  we  will  remain, 
I  hope.  .  .  .  All  I  ask  is  to  be  allowed  to  live  my  life  as  I 
think  best." 

"But  no  one  has  the  privilege,  dear,"  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 

282 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Maurice  said,  affectionately.  "Each  man  is  to  a  certain 
extent  his  brother's  keeper — that  is  one  of  the  laws  of 
life.  No  one  can  live  just  as  he  wishes;  it  is  a  little  mis- 
take of  inexperience,  that  idea  of  yours." 

"I  suppose  I  am  mistaken  in  many  respects,"  Myra 
returned.  "Nevertheless,  I  must  go  my  way.  I  have 
seen  the  'idyllic  visions'  only  once,  and  that  was  when 
for  a  short  time  I  hypnotized  myself  into  thinking  that 
I  should  continue  life  with  Justin." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  caught  at  the  remark.  "Yes, 
it  has  been  that  with  many  women,  a  sort  of  stupefying 
of  their  reason.  .  .  .  Do  not  think,  my  dear,  that  because 
I  have  carried  tales  I  am  out  of  sympathy  with  you.  I 
understand  you  better  than  you  understand  yourself.  I 
see  on  all  sides  the  dissatisfaction  with  the  existing  rela- 
tions of  men  and  women.  We  are  in  one  grand  turmoil 
and  uncertainty  on  the  subject.  There  is  a  universal 
demand  for  a  change — but  to  what?  The  trouble  is  that 
you  people  who  can  no  longer  see  the  old  visions  are  too 
hastily  evoking  new  ones.  You  are  in  such  a  hurry. 
You  do  not  realize  that  this  is  merely  the  day  of  transi- 
tion. .  .  .  Sometimes  I  have  a  hot  envy  of  you  who  have 
before  you  years  enough  to  bridge  the  period  and  come 
out  into  the  open.  .  .  .  My  day  is  so  nearly  done."  She 
spoke  with  deep  feeling,  rising  a  little  abruptly  to  go, 
and  Myra  noticed  for  the  first  time  the  faint  vibrations 
of  palsy,  the  trembling  of  her  friend's  white  head.  It 
must  be  strange  to  feel  that  life  was  nearly  done. 

Myra  bent  and  kissed  her  lovingly.  "I  shall  go  on 
groping." 

"Go  on!  As  well  try  to  turn  back  the  Falls  of  Niagara 
— with  these  two  small  hands  of  mine!"  She  held  them 
up.  "You  are  all  groping,  testing,  experiencing,  and 
deciding,  and  though  it  is  a  little  hard  to  recognize, 
the  driving-force  in  you  is  exactly  the  same  as  in  the 
days  of  Pharaoh  —  mate -hunger,  mate  -  selection.  .  .  . 
19  283 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

Come  soon  to  see  me.     I  shall  this  very  night  dispose  of 
Adele  Courland.     A  maligner  of  her  own  sex,  she!" 

But  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  was  still  thinking  of  the 
"driving-force"  when,  a  few  yards  from  Myra's  door,  she 
passed  a  man  who  had  just  alighted  from  a  taxicab.  He 
was  standing  for  the  moment  with  face  upturned  to  the 
windows  of  the  room  she  had  just  left — Karl  Janniss. 
He  was  visioning — Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  guessed  what — 
the  woman  toward  whom  he  felt  urged.  It  was  an  even- 
ing of  early  twilight,  so  the  street-lamp  shone  full  on  him, 
whitening  his  features,  darkening  his  eyes,  thinning  his 
cheeks,  showing  the  set  of  his  lips,  the  look  of  restrained 
eagerness  akin  to  hunger.  She  passed  him  so  closely  that 
her  limousine  almost  grazed  him,  yet  he  did  not  recognize 
her — an  old  woman  being  whirled  on  up  the  Drive! 
What  was  she  to  him?  .  .  .  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  little 
hands  came  together  in  her  muff  and  held  tightly.  She 
was  an  old  woman,  and  because  in  some  ways  life  had 
given  her  little — because  her  arms  were  empty  of  love's 
greatest  gift  —  desolation  sometimes  swept  her.  That 
man  and  woman  had  opportunity  before  them. 

"And  it  need  not  have  been,  if  I  had  had  her  courage," 
she  thought.  "If  I  had  thrust  aside  my  St.  Claire." 
Then  she  shrugged  her  slight  shoulders  with  a  return  to 
the  humorous.  "But  forty  years  ago!  Dear  Lord!  I 
would  have  been  jailed!" 

She  was  sitting  well  forward,  with  face  close  to  the 
window,  her  keen  old  eyes  on  the  lights  of  the  river.  It 
was  a  cold  evening  to  choose  for  a  constitutional,  yet 
occasionally  a  figure  crossed  her  line  of  vision.  A  tall 
man,  his  cane  under  his  arm,  and  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes, 
had  come  beneath  one  of  the  park  lights.  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice  stared,  then  sat  erect,  her  little  face  instantly 
vivid.  Then  she  gave  her  order: 

"Go  two  blocks  up,  then  turn  and  come  back — very 
slowly.  Come  down  the  park  side." 

284 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

She  sat  with  elbow  on  the  window-sill,  watching,  and 
presently  the  man  came  into  view  again,  striding  along. 
As  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  expected,  he  did  not  loiter 
until  he  stood  opposite  Myra's  windows.  Then  he  came 
to  a  stop  and  looked  up.  She  could  not  see  him  as  dis- 
tinctly as  she  had  seen  Janniss,  but  she  could  see  what  he 
did.  He  had  come  to  a  full  stop.  He  walked  on  and 
stopped  again.  Then  abruptly  he  turned  aside  and  de- 
scended the  steps  into  the  park.  On  the  path  below  he 
could  walk  up  and  down  if  he  wished,  and  not  be  re- 
marked from  the  street. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  leaned  back,  her  look  a  little 
blank.  "That  Alyth  man!"  she  said,  softly.  "And  he's 
not  been  near  me,  nor  once  to  see  her,  yet  he  keeps  watch 
like  that !  .  .  .  And  with  the  thermometer  at  zero !  ...  It 
appears  to  be  a  germ  that  neither  boiling  nor  freezing  will 
kill.  .  .  .  And  she — of  all  the  unconscious  beings!  How 
will  it  be  when  she  finally  wakes  up?"  She  chuckled  a 
little,  though  her  look  was  grave  enough. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

JANNISS  had  made  much  the  same  remark  to  himself 
innumerable  times.  "Of  all  the  determinedly  un- 
conscious women!  If  I  wake  her  up  shall  I  lose  her? 
What  in  the  name  of  Heaven  am  I  to  do?" 

For  Janniss  was  suffering.  He  was  both  intensely  ex- 
cited and  fearful.  He  had  kept  an  iron  grip  on  himself 
during  those  weeks  of  friendly  intercourse.  He  had  the 
tormenting  certainty  that  Myra  was  showing  him  only 
that  charming  outer  surface  of  hers,  tempered  by  the 
merest  suggestion  of  intimacy,  yet  he  dared  not  attempt 
to  break  down  her  guard.  He  was  afraid  to  disturb  her 
conception  of  the  relation  existing  between  them  lest  he 
lose  her  altogether.  Like  many  another  thoroughly  in- 
fatuated man,  he  had  no  knowledge  of  his  lady's  mind, 
and,  ruled  as  he  was  by  awe  and  fear,  he  dared  not  venture 
a  step  beyond  the  line  she  had  drawn.  He  wanted  be- 
yond anything  to  paint  her,  but  not  the  surface  Myra. 
He  wanted  to  paint  the  woman  loving  and  being  loved; 
reveal  the  innermost  woman.  It  had  become  an  obses- 
sion with  him,  for  he  was  out  of  all  sympathy  with  the 
portraits  he  had  painted  of  women.  Myra  would  lead 
him  to  something  better;  he  glimpsed  greater  possibilities 
in  his  art;  he  wanted  a  thousand  things  he  did  not  have. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Janniss  was  attacked  by  a 
sense  of  futility;  he  was  depressed  to  the  point  of  despair, 
exasperated  beyond  endurance. 

As  Janniss  had  said  to  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice,  he  was 
prone  to  paint  "flesh"  when  he  painted  a  woman,  and,  had 

286 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

he  carried  his  confession  farther,  he  would  have  said  that 
he  had  been  unfortunate  in  his  experience;  that  because 
his  first  pronounced  success  had  been  the  portrait  of  a 
woman  who  had  since  become  notorious  on  two  conti- 
nents a  certain  type  had  gravitated  to  him.  With  his 
passion  for  truthful  delineation  urging  him,  he  had  done 
justice  to  his  subjects.  He  was  becoming  known  as  a 
portraiturist  of  "the  temperamental,"  a  classification 
that,  though  it  was  making  him  the  fashion,  angered  him 
intensely.  With  a  subject  such  as  Myra  he  would  show 
the  world  how  exquisitely  he  could  paint  the  soul  of  a 
woman.  Both  the  soul  and  the  body.  He  was  no  devotee 
of  the  unwholesome! 

For  Karl  Janniss  was  not  a  sensualist.  Had  he  been 
he  might  perhaps  have  painted  the  fleshly  woman  too 
frankly.  It  had  been  the  desire  to  protect  his  art  from 
too  great  realism  that  had  kept  his  personal  life  fairly 
clean.  If  he  debauched  a  certain  critical  aloofness  that 
was  his  heritage,  his  art  would  suffer.  It  was  the  pre- 
servative instinct  that  had  restrained  him. 

At  any  rate,  such  was  the  explanation  he  gave  himself 
of  himself,  and  the  explanation  he  gave  to  Alyth.  He 
had  seen  much  of  Alyth  since  their  night  walk  on  River- 
side Drive.  Alyth  frequently  found  him  sitting  and 
smoking  in  the  fading  light,  frowning  angrily  over  his 
day's  work.  As  chance  had  it,  he  was  pa'nting  only 
women  that  winter. 

"The  worst  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  me!" 
he  told  Alyth,  irritably. 

Alyth's  comings  and  goings  did  not  trouble  Janniss. 
He  came  after  working-hours,  and  usually,  without  re- 
moving hat  or  coat,  and  with  his  cane  gripped  under  his 
arm,  as  was  his  custom  when  walking,  he  would  peram- 
bulate the  studio.  Or  taking  an  unoffered  chair,  he  would 
smoke  until  the  dinner-hour,  silent  or  talkative,  adapting 
himself  to  Janniss's  mood.  Occasionally  he  carried  Jan- 

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THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

niss  off  to  dinner  with  him,  and  the  two  talked  till  mid- 
night. 

Janniss  was  not  in  the  least  curious  about  George  Alyth. 
He  knew  in  a  vague  way  that  Alyth  had  a  wife  and  chil- 
dren. The  man  appeared  to  have  a  life  quite  apart  from 
them;  still,  his  was  a  profession  that  took  him  away  from 
his  family  frequently.  Janniss  had  always  thought  of  him 
as  a  tremendously  ambitious  man,  possessed  of  a  deep 
love  for  his  calling — a  very  successful,  but  certainly  not 
a  domestic  man.  One  never  met  his  wife;  something  was 
wrong  of  course,  some  one  of  the  many  marital  complica- 
tions, still  that  was  not  his  affair. 

Janniss  did  not  trouble  to  ask  himself  why  an  over- 
whelmingly busy  man  like  Alyth  sought  him,  for  he  was 
too  wretched  to  question  about  anything.  His  work  had 
lost  its  savor.  What  difference  did  it  make  who  came  and 
went?  To  a  certain  extent  Alyth  was  a  distraction. 
Alyth  must  know  that  he  was  mad  over  a  woman;  after 
their  talk  that  night  on  Riverside  Drive,  Alyth  probably 
suspected  who  she  was.  But  what  did  it  matter  ?  He  was 
not  likely  to  have  the  good  fortune  to  call  upon  Alyth  for 
advice. 

And  Alyth  was  making  his  discoveries  without  asking 
a  single  question.  No  matter  of  what  they  talked,  Jan- 
niss's  refrain  was  always  the  same,  "Things  can't  go  on 
as  they  are — I  can't  paint!" 

"You  have  done  several  portraits  this  year,  and  here 
are  two  more  practically  completed,"  Alyth  objected  on 
one  occasion. 

"Just  the  same,  I  am  not  painting!'1  Janniss  returned, 
passionately.  "I  am  simply  touching  up  a  few  self- 
evident  facts  with  color.  They're  the  baldest  things  I 
have  ever  done.  If  I  can't  do  better  than  this  I  must 
quit!  .  .  .  Now  this  thing  of  Adele  Courland — though  I 
painted  it  with  my  thoughts  on  another  woman,  I  did 
succeed  in  working  up  an  interest  in  what  I  was  doing, 

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THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

for  I  was  comparing  her  with  her  antithesis.  I  was 
painting  a  woman  whose  soul  had  so  disintegrated  that 
it  was  infinitesimal.  Adele  is  wwsane,  if  ever  a  woman 
was — it  was  her  soul  disease  attacked,  leaving  her  as  I 
have  shown  her.  The  conception  interested  me." 

Janniss  was  standing  before  the  portrait  as  he  spoke, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  brow  drawn.  He  had  painted 
Adele  in  her  red-gold  gown,  and  he  had  neither  exaggerated 
nor  slurred  her  pronounced  effect.  His  conception  was 
apparent  enough  to  Alyth;  the  secret  lay  in  the  eyes. 
To  the  average  observer  her  expression  was  simply  the 
subject  of  wondering  comment.  One  critic  had  given 
paragraphs  to  the  "burning  eyes"  of  the  portrait.  An- 
other, coming  closer  to  Janniss's  idea,  spoke  of  the  "lost- 
soul  impression"  the  artist  had  conveyed. 

"The  thing  is  well  done — of  its  kind,"  Janniss  com- 
mented. "  It  ought  to  hang  in  a  neurologist's  laboratory. 
The  critics  have  yawled  over  it,  but  it  doesn't  deserve 
their  noise.  They  wouldn't  write  such  rot  if  they  had 
ever  visited  a  pyscopathic  ward.  .  .  .  She  has  a  bit  of  soul 
about  her  still,  of  course,  and  I  ought  to  have  shown  it." 
He  whirled  about  and  glowered  at  Mrs.  Carson  Ostrand's 
portrait.  "What's  been  wrong  with  me,  anyway,  that 
I've  always  given  emphasis  to  the  physical  woman — as  I 
have  in  this  thing?  And  that  portrait  over  there  of 
Cecile  Jerome.  Cecile's  an  emotional  actress  and  always 
somebody's  mistress,  as  we  all  know,  but  I  happen  to 
know  that  she's  supported  a  worthless  family  since  she 
was  sixteen.  And  Mrs.  Carson  Ostrand  is  a  mother. 
There's  that  side  to  those  women — why  haven't  I  shown 
it?  They  call  my  work  subtle — perhaps  it  is  subtle  in 
the  delineation  of  just  one  characteristic;  but  that  is  not 
art.  Art  is  comprehensive.  ...  I  tell  you  I  am  not  paint- 
ing! Subtle!  I'm  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  my  hand  when 
it  comes  to  painting  women!" 

"You  paint  the  seductive  woman  marvelously.  It  is 

289 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

and  always  has  been  a  popular  theme,"  Alyth  said.  His 
thought  was,  "You  are  beginning  to  have  some  conception 
of  what  a  woman  may  mean  to  a  man,  and  your  love 
has  put  you  out  of  conceit  with  your  former  ignorance." 

"Damn  popularity!"  Janniss  returned,  hotly.  "Don't 
you  understand  what  my  complaint  is?  I  want  to  do 
with  women  what  I  do  with  men — see  the  woman  I  paint 
from  all  angles;  paint  her  comprehendingly  and  com- 
prehensively. As  it  is,  I  tell  only  a  small  part  of  the 
truth  about  her.  For  some  reason  I  reveal  that  bit  of 
truth  exceedingly  well,  but  that  doesn't  satisfy  me." 

"Haven't  you  simply  painted  what  is  to  men  the  most 
pronouncedly  recognizable  thing  in  a  woman?"  Alyth 
suggested.  "I  question  if  ever  there's  been  an  artist 
who  has,  as  you  express  it,  'seen  the  woman  he  painted 
from  all  angles ' — as  he  sees  a  man — and  has  told  the  all- 
rounded  truth  about  her.  For  instance,  whether  the  sub- 
ject be  maid,  mother,  or  angel,  why  do  all  Murillo's  wom- 
en express  virginity,  and  Raphael's  women  motherhood, 
and  Rubens  and  Titian  the  sensuous?  Were  Burne- 
Jones's  women  ever  anything  else  than  conventual? 
The  old  painters  adapted  their  women  to  some  well- 
established  ideal.  As  you  say  of  yourself,  they  painted 
part  of  the  truth,  and  did  it  well.  The  artist  of  to-day 
grants  that  woman  is  not  to  be  explained  by  rule;  he 
grants  her  a  flourishing  individuality;  but  since  he  is 
still  too  much  bound  by  the  conventional  view  to  have 
any  sort  of  understanding  of  her,  he  either  falls  back  upon 
the  old,  well-established  half-truths,  or  thinks  he  is  ac- 
complishing a  revelation  when  he  does  a  striking  'like- 
ness.'" 

Janniss  relaxed  for  a  moment  into  interest.  "For  a 
conventionalist  at  heart  you  are  an  excellent  theorist. 
Your  explanation  is  ingenious  to  say  the  least,  but  shades 
of  the  Madonnas,  the  Susannas,  and  the  Flamma  Ves- 
talises — think  of  the  centuries  of  misspent  effort!  And 

290 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

what  a  crying  injustice  to  the  sex!"  Then  he  sobered 
into  depression.  "But  it  is  no  laughing  matter  to  me. 
These  two  portraits  finished,  and  I'm  done  with  painting 
women — I'm  fairly  at  a  standstill."  He  sighed  impatient- 
ly. "And  what  the  future  '11  bring  God  only  knows!" 

In  an  expressionless  way  Alyth  studied  the  frowning 
man  before  him.  With  a  satisfaction  that  Alyth  himself 
knew  was  something  more  than  cold-blooded  he  was 
watching  Karl  Janniss  get  the  worst  of  it.  The  man 
spent  hours  with  Myra,  but  to  what  purpose?  It  was  the 
passionately  jealous  man  in  Alyth  that  was  getting  satis- 
faction, and  yet  at  the  same  time  he  felt  sorry  for  Jan- 
niss. He  would  have  done  him  a  kindness  if  he  could. 
With  a  certain  loyalty,  man  to  man,  he  himself  kept  away 
from  the  apartment  on  Riverside  Drive.  He  was  afraid 
of  himself  and  afraid  for  Myra. 

And  yet,  sometimes  when  Janniss  showed  his  lovable 
qualities,  Alyth  set  his  teeth  on  the  suggestion  of  his  own 
brain:  that  if  Myra  could  love  him,  Janniss  might  prove 
the  solution  of  her  problem.  It  was  a  mixture  of  motives 
and  feelings  that  brought  Alyth  so  frequently  to  Jan- 
niss's  studio.  And  now,  as  he  listened  to  the  man's  rest- 
less misery,  it  occurred  to  Alyth  that  he  had  it  in  his 
power  to  at  least  offer  him  a  diversion.  "Why  not  paint 
a  man?"  he  suggested. 

"No  one  is  offering  himself,  and  I  haven't  the  heart 
to  search  for  a  model." 

"Why  not  paint  me?" 

Janniss's  brows  lifted.     "You!" 

Then  there  followed  upon  his  look  of  complete  astonish- 
ment the  artist's  instant  appreciation  of  a  subject  worthy 
of  his  best  effort.  His  kindling  glance  swept  Alyth,  his 
almost  Indian  swarthiness,  his  black  brows  shadowing 
vivid  eyes,  his  thin  cheeks,  lips  too  firmly  set  for  discon- 
tent, and  yet  in  combination  with  his  level  glance  sug- 
gestive of  a  certain  smileless  outlook  upon  life.  A  Celtic 

291 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

face  with  its  touches  of  melancholy  and  fire — Janniss  had 
seen  its  like  more  than  once  in  the  Scotch  Highlands. 

"You  mean  it?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"But  why?  You  are  the  last  man  in  New  York  I 
should  have  expected  to  be  seized  by  the  portrait  fever." 
It  suddenly  occurred  to  Janniss  that  Alyth  had  in  the 
last  few  weeks  been  testing  his  ability  as  an  artist. 

"I  have  two  boys — they  may  value  a  portrait  some 
day." 

"I  will  paint  you,  with  pleasure,  and  try  to  do  you 
justice."  There  was  more  of  the  old  Janniss  in  the 
pleased  acceptance  than  Alyth  had  observed  in  weeks, 
and  Alyth  commented  on  it  grimly.  Even  on  his  death- 
bed Karl  Janniss  would  quicken  to  artistic  appeal.  A 
woman  would  need  to  be  very  free  from  ealousy  to  mate 
happily  with  such  a  man.  And  with  a  hot  concession 
to  honesty  Alyth  granted  Myra  was  large-rouled  enough 
to  make  allowances. 

Thereafter,  for  a  period,  Alyth  sat  day  after  day  in  the 
clear  north  light  of  the  studio,  tight-lipped,  somber,  at 
times  pale  in  spite  of  his  swarthiness,  his  eyes  for  ever  on 
Janniss's  absorbed  face.  In  his  relieved  plunge  into 
interest  Janniss  revealed  himself  at  his  best.  Alyth  was 
forced  to  grant  that  Karl  Janniss  was  sound.  The  key- 
note of  his  character  was  sincerity.  He  was  honest  as  a 
man,  honest  as  an  artist.  He  had  a  passionate  love  of 
his  art,  and  rare  talent.  And  not  a  trace  of  commercial- 
ism. Alyth  knew  how  Myra  hated  the  purely  acquisitive 
spirit.  In  many  ways  Janniss  was  suited  to  her,  and  she 
to  him.  Myra  was  a  child-hungry  woman,  and  Janniss 
had  the  quality  so  frequently  allied  with  genius,  a  certain 
ingenuousness  that  was  appealing.  In  his  art  he  was 
subtle,  vastly  capable,  and  aloof.  It  was  the  rare  woman 
who  would  adapt  herself  to  such  a  nature  and  find  hap- 
piness in  doing  it;  absorb  his  love  and  feel  no  jealousy 

292 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

of  the  thing  that  would  always  be  the  core  of  Janniss's 
being — his  art.  And  it  was  quite  possible  that  the  two 
were  finding  their  way  to  love  over  the  path  that  a  woman 
so  often  in  self-defense  makes  as  difficult  as  possible. 
Alyth  had  an  increasingly  tormenting  desire  to  know, 
yet  the  insurmountable  necessity  of  playing  fair  kept 
him  from  trapping  Janniss  into  admissions  and,  as  his 
jealousy  grew  still  more  acute,  withheld  him  from  going 
to  Myra. 

He  looked  somewhat  haggardly  at  Janniss  as  the  days 
passed,  and  several  times  Janniss  frowned  over  his  ap- 
pearance. 

"You  are  not  looking  well,"  he  commented.  "Want 
to  quit  for  a  day  or  two?" 

"  No — four  months  on  end  of  New  York  always  bleaches 
me." 

"Hell  of  a  life — if  one  wants  to  make  it  so,"  Janniss  re- 
turned, his  voice  thickened  by  the  brush  he  held  between 
his  teeth.  He  removed  it,  making  with  it  one  of  his 
clean,  sure  strokes,  while  he  indicated  by  a  movement 
of  his  head  the  three  women's  portraits.  "Judged  by 
those  things,  I've  been  a  student  of  the  unwholesome. 
But  I  haven't.  I've  kept  pretty  clean,  on  the  whole;  a 
bit  too  fastidious,  perhaps.  I've  always  been  afraid  to 
let  myself  wallow.  .  .  .  Perhaps  if  I  had  ever  really  gotten 
down  in  the  mire  and  rolled  in  it  I'd  paint  the  sensual 
woman  a  little  less  alluringly." 

-  "What  it  would  have  made  of  you  as  an  artist  is  con- 
jectural," Alyth  replied.  "As  a  man  you  are  fortunate, 
for  when  it  comes  to  learning  your  fate  from  a  woman 
who  is  not  ignorant  of  things  as  they  are,  what  you  have 
to  say  for  yourself  will  count." 

Janniss  gave  his  sitter  a  quick  look,  but  Alyth's  face 
was  expressionless.  Janniss  was  silent  for  a  long  time 
after  that,  and  Alyth  guessed  that  he  was  pondering  some 
decided  step.  Alyth  felt  a  certain  wonder  at  himself. 

293 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Why  offer  the  man  whom  he  sometimes  actually  hated 
that  bit  of  encouragement? 

The  next  day,  from  Hipbard,  Alyth  heard  the  report 
that  had  brought  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  to  Myra. 
"Some  such  thing  was  sure  to  get  about,"  Hipbard  said, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  far  too  wise  ever  to  allow 
himself  to  figure  in  a  matrimonial  scandal. 

"Bah!  What  fool  talk!"  Alyth  said,  contemptuously. 
"I  know  the  Milenbergs  and  something  of  the  circum- 
stances. The  St.  Claires  have  separated — that  is  no  secret 
— and  Mrs.  St.  Claire  has  the  idea  many  women  have,  that 
she  would  like  to  be  independent  even  of  her  father's 
money.  She  came  to  New  York  to  work,  not  because  of 
Karl  Janniss  or  any  other  man.  It's  possible  Janniss  is 
infatuated  with  her — that's  natural  enough ;  but  I  have 
no  doubt  she  will  send  him  packing  when  she  discovers 
what  nonsense  is  being  talked." 

"Perhaps.  Still,  that  sort  of  talk  is  calculated  to  bring 
two  people  together  if  there's  any  truth  at  all  in  the  thing. 
Possibly  some  one  has  an  ax  to  grind,"  Hipbard  re- 
marked, shrewdly. 

It  struck  Alyth  that  Frank  Hipbard  had  given  some 
not  altogether  disinterested  thought  to  Myra  St.  Claire's 
affairs. 

Alyth  also  thought  there  was  design  in  the  report, 
though  he  did  not  say  so.  He  was  very  certain  of  it  when, 
on  parting  with  Hipbard,  he  went  to  Janniss's  studio  and 
found  Adele  Courland  seated  negligently  before  her  por- 
trait, with  an  admiring  attendant  at  her  chair-back,  an 
erotic  poet  with  the  brow  of  Poe,  and  the  manner  of  Wilde, 
and  withal  a  somewhat  simian  cast  of  countenance, 
who  had  been  much  in  Adele's  company  that  winter. 
Janniss  had  evidently  heard,  for  he  was  white  to  the  lips. 
He  talked  stiffly  to  the  poet,  while  Adele  manoeuvered 
Alyth  away  from  her  portrait,  so  that  they  stood  apart. 
What  she  had  to  say  then  was  expressed  in  the  same  half- 

294 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

malign,  half-enigmatic  manner  in  which  she  had  attacked 
Alyth  at  Woodmansie  Place. 

"The  complacency  of  Americans  as  long  as  a  mani- 
festation of  nature  is  properly  draped,  and  their  prudery 
as  soon  as  it  is  revealed  au  naturel,  amuses  me,"  she  gen- 
eralized in  conclusion.  "Suppose  Janniss  and  Mrs.  St. 
Claire  are  enamoured  of  each  other — why  make  so  great 
an  enormity  of  so  perfectly  natural  a  happening?" 

Alyth  received  her  communications  and  her  comments 
imperturbably,  simply  studying  her  in  his  level,  con- 
temptuous way,  and  so  steadily  and  silently  that  even 
her  cool  effrontery  was  dashed.  He  was  thinking,  among 
other  things,  that  her  like  should  be  kindly  but  firmly 
placed  behind  bars.  What  was  wrong  with  the  preventive 
societies  that  she  was  allowed  to  be  at  large,  free  to  beget 
her  kind  if  she  willed?  She  should  be  taken  in  hand  by 
the  eugenists.  But  this  was  a  thought  aside  from  the 
thing  that  was  absorbing  Alyth — what  was  Janniss  going 
to  do?  And  while  Adele  undulated  about  the  studio, 
talking  now  in  French,  now  in  German,  to  her  attendant, 
her  all-absorbing  gaze  a  little  shrinking  when  it  rested  on 
Alyth,  Alyth's  unobtrusive  attention  was  given  to  Jan- 
niss. The  poet  was  voluble,  Janniss  monosyllabic. 

Then,  when  the  door  had  at  last  closed  on  Adele,  Jan- 
niss cast  aside  his  smoking-jacket.  "It's  too  late  for  a 
sitting.  I  have  an  engagement,"  he  flung  at  Alyth  in  a 
smothered  way  as  he  plunged  into  the  next  room. 

Alyth  heard  him  moving  hurriedly  about  as  he  dressed. 
The  thing  was  plain,  Janniss  was  going  direct  to  Myra. 
In  his  place  he  would  do  the  same. 

Alyth  went  out  quietly,  and  down  to  the  street.  He 
walked  aimlessly  westward,  and  before  he  had  gone  a 
block  a  taxicab  passed  him  carrying  Janniss.  It  was  a 
cold  afternoon,  and  gray;  twilight  would  come  early. 
There  was  a  steady,  hot  throbbing  in  Alyth's  temples; 
a  coldness  about  his  Ups  that  the  height  of  emotion  brings, 

295 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  looked  after  Janniss  with  an  envy  so  profound  that 
for  the  moment  he  could  have  done  him  a  bodily  injury. 
If  he  were  in  Janniss's  place,  and  this  opportunity  in  his 
hands !  .  .  .  And  the  man  might  win  out.  .  .  .  And  if  he  did 
they  would  sit  long  over  their  happiness.  .  .  .  What  in 
God's  name  would  he  do  with  the  intervening  time? 

He  went  on,  and  still  without  purpose,  until  he  saw  the 
usual  line  of  waiting  cabs  drawn  to  the  curb.  He  had 
passed  them  before  there  flashed  into  his  mind  other 
vigils  he  had  kept.  He  turned  about  and,  jerking  open 
the  door  of  the  first  one  he  reached,  flung  his  order  at  the 
driver:  "Up  Riverside  Drive — until  I  tell  you  to  stop." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  late  when  Alyth  again  knocked  on  Janniss's 
door.  In  the  dragging  hours  Alyth  had  spent  walking 
about  Myra's  vicinity  he  had  decided  that  Myra's  need 
of  love  had  conquered ;  just  as  with  St.  Claire  it  had  con- 
quered her.  From  the  beginning  he  had  feared  it.  One 
look  at  Janniss  would  tell  him  everything;  Alyth  felt  he 
could  not  live  the  night  through  without  knowing  for  a 
certainty.  He  opened  the  door  when  Janniss  called,  and 
stood  arrested. 

He  had  stepped  into  a  room  that  was  in  confusion,  for 
under  a  glare  of  light  Janniss  was  sorting  out  his  can- 
vases. He  did  not  turn  at  once  to  see  who  had  entered, 
and  when  he  did  the  two  stajed  at  each  other  blankly. 
Janniss  was  disheveled,  his  face  colorless,  the  answer 
to  Alyth's  burning  look  plainly  enough  written  on  every 
feature. 

He  recognized  Alyth  without  interest.  "You,  Alyth!" 
he  said.  "I  thought  it  was  the  janitor.  I  rang  for  him." 

Alyth's  suddenly  shortened  breath  made  his  question 
husky.  "What  are  you  doing?" 

"Getting  ready — to  go  away,"  Janniss  answered,  dully. 
"  I  want  the  man  up  here.  Some  of  these  things  must  be 
delivered  in  the  morning." 

Alyth  closed  the  door  behind  him.  With  his  back  to 
Janniss  he  took  off  his  hat  and  his  coat,  deliberately,  for 
his  hands  were  unsteady.  The  relief  of  the  unexpected 
thing!  When  he  turned  about  his  face  was  still  dark- 
ened by  the  rush  of  blood  to  his  head.  But  his  eyes  were 
steady. 

297 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"You'll  need  help,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  Janniss  returned,  indifferently.  "I'm  trying 
to  separate  the  sheep  from  the  goats.  .  .  .  These  two  por- 
traits will  have  to  go  unfinished.  I'll  write  and  explain. 
.  .  .  And,  by  the  way,  there's  yours,  too.  If  you  don't 
want  to  wait  for  it — perhaps  indefinitely — why,  just  say 
so,  and  we'll  call  it  off." 

"  You  can  take  your  time  with  my  portrait.  You  mean 
you  are  leaving  town?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  I've  looked  up  the  sailing  lists.  I  can  get 
off  to-morrow.  I'm  going  abroad — somewhere — I'm  not 
certain  where  yet — to  Paris,  I  suppose." 

"What  is  there  I  can  do?" 

"Just  set  these  things  that  are  to  be  delivered  over 
near  the  door.  The  others  can  go  in  this  corner  and  be 
covered.  ...  I  suppose  the  janitor's  out  on  a  spree;  but 
it  doesn't  matter.  I'll  get  him  in  the  morning."  Every- 
thing he  said  was  on  the  same  dead  level  of  indifference. 

It  took  them  well  into  the  small  hours  to  put  the  studio 
in  order.  It  was  a  big  place,  the  entire  top  floor — Janniss's 
home  as  well  as  his  studio — and  filled  with  his  belongings, 
odds  and  ends  he  had  collected  in  his  travels,  and  his 
paintings.  They  worked  in  silence,  except  as  Janniss 
gave  his  dull-voiced  orders  and  Alyth  questioned  about 
the  disposal  of  some  article.  When  at  last  they  were 
through,  and  had  lighted  cigars,  Janniss  expressed  his 
thanks: 

"It's  been  good  of  you,"  he  said,  with  more  feeling 
than  he  had  shown  so  far.  "You've  not  asked  a  question. 
I've  been  pretty  nearly  beside  myself — I've  had  a  knock- 
down blow;  but  I've  sense  enough  left  to  appreciate  tact." 

"I  understand  better  than  you  think,"  Alyth  said. 

Janniss's  tired  eyes  questioned  him.  He  looked  more  the 
boy  to  Alyth  at  that  moment  than  he  ever  had  before. 
Pain  and  weariness  had  sharpened  his  features,  setting 
dark  circles  about  his  eyes. 

298 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"You've  guessed,  of  course,"  he  said,  simply.     "I  have 
been  mad  over  a  woman  for  a  long  time,  ami— \\rll 
best  thing  I  can  do  now,  both  for  her  and  my  sol  I. 
clear  out.  ...  It  has  nearly  done  lor  my  work  this  long 
time — you've  heard  me  fret   and    fume     and    no\\ ,  it    1 
don't  get  myself  together,  I'll  go  under." 

Then  Alyth  asked  his  first,  question:  "Doosn't  she 
love  you,  Janniss?  You're  lovable,  if  ever  a  man  was. 
I  have  found  that  out  these  week:.  I've  been  about." 

Janniss  bit  on  his  cigar  to  keep  his  lips  from  quivering. 
They  had  burned  papers  in  the  grate,  and  he  bent  and 
stirred  the  charred  heap,  lighting  his  hurt.  But  suddenly 
it  was  too  much  for  him,  ami.  Hinging  the  poker  down,  he 
reached  for  a  small  framed  painting  that  lay  on  the  table, 
a  thing  that  earlier  in  the  evening  Alyth  had  studied  for 
a  long  moment.  It  was  Myra,  just  the  head  and  the 
beautiful  lines  of  throat  and  shoulder;  Myra  at  her 
brightest,  feelingly  done. 

Janniss  held  it  out  to  Alyth.  "It  is  she,"  he  said, 
thickly.  "I  suppose  you  have  guessed.  You  know  her. 
Do  you  blame  me  ?  Would  you  blame  any  man  for  want  ing 
her?"  And  then  suddenly  the  whole  story  burst  from  him. 
He  flung  his  cigar  into  the  grate  and,  springing  up.  \\alked 
the  floor.  "She  has  never  given  me  a  word  or  look  to 
build  on — she's  not  that  kind.  If  ever  there  was  an  hon- 
est woman,  it's  Myra  St.  Claire.  She's  made  it  plain  to 
me  all  along  that  she  was  not  lung  but  a  good  friend.  She's 
been  obvious  about  it.  And  1  kept,  hold  on  myself — I 
was  afraid  not  to;  the  only  hope  I  had  was  of  making 
myself  so  good  a  companion  that,  she  \\oiild  grow  to  love 
me.  It  was  Adele's  damned  hintingata  li.ii  ,011  that  drove 
me  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 

"  It  began  a  long  time  back  with  me — in  New  Rot 
when  that  consummate  hypocrite,  St.  Claire,  was  courting 
her.     I  was  mad  to  paint  her  back  at  that  time — it  was 
mostly  that  in  the  beginning.     I  didn't  forget  her,  and 

20  299 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

those  weeks  at  Woodmansie  Place  when  I  was  painting 
that — " — he  swore  deeply  when  he  spoke  Adele's  name — 
"  I  fairly  lost  myself.  It  was  intolerable,  that  situation — 
those  two  people  harnessed  together,  husband  and  wife. 
St.  Claire  without  a  thought  in  the  world  for  any  one 
but  himself  and  his  schemes;  he's  not  above  working  a 
woman,  that  man.  And  that  bright  girl  grown  so  utterly 
wretched  that  she  had  become  mechanical!  I  was  mad 
over  her.  I  loved  her  and  I  was  so  damned  sorry  for 
her,  both.  God  knows  I  tried  to  keep  hold  on  myself, 
but  there  are  always  those  who  are  keen  enough  to  see. 
But  she  never  suspected.  She  knew  I  admired  her,  of 
course,  and  set  it  down  to  the  artist  in  me,  and  not  the 
man.  I  didn't  know  any  one  suspected  until  St.  Claire 
gave  me  a  warning."  Janniss  flung  back  his  head,  an 
angry  gesture.  "Well,  that  was  his  right,  of  course,  and 
I  took  my  medicine  quietly,  as  a  man  must  who  covets 
what  is  another  man's  legal  possession,  though,  having 
watched  the  triangle  at  Woodmansie  Place  as  I  had,  I 
might  have  retorted.  ...  I  put  in  a  bad  six  months  after 
that — until  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  sped  her  bolt  out  of 
a  clear  sky.  You  were  there — you  heard.  Myra  St. 
Claire  meant  to  be  free — she  was  here,  within  my  reach!" 
Janniss  stopped  his  restless  walking  about  and,  coming 
to  the  table,  looked  down  on  Myra's  face.  "The  only 
painting  I've  done  for  a  year  that  hasn't  been  mechanical 
has  been  this.  To  paint  any  other  woman  was  deadly 
dull.  I  did  a  dozen  of  these,  I  think — from  memory — 
and  then  destroyed  most  of  them.  This  is  the  last  I  did, 
and  I  kept  it  because  I  wanted  it  to  look  at — even  though 
it  was  no  adequate  expression  of  her.  I  did  this  the  day 
after  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  dinner,  and  that  night  was 
the  last  time  I  urged  Myra  to  sit  for  me,  for  when  I  found 
that  she  was  showing  me  nothing  but  her  surface  self 
I  didn't  want  to  paint  her — I'd  have  done  no  better  by 
her  than  I  have  by  these  other  women  here.  I  wanted 

300 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

her  to  show  me  herself;  . .  .  and  yet  if  she  had  I  suppose 
I  would  have  gone  mad — I'd  have  gone  on  my  knees  to 
her — as  I  did  to-night — " 

Alyth's  eyes  had  followed  Janniss's  restless  movements 
keenly,  absorbedly,  but  at  the  final  confession  he  sat  up- 
right, as  if  stung.  "You  did!"  he  said,  through  his  teeth. 
It  was  the  first  remark  he  had  made. 

Janniss  was  looking  down;  he  did  not  notice.  "If  I'd 
struck  her  she  couldn't  have  been  more  taken  aback.  .  .  . 
And  yet  she  was  kind,  for  though  I  got  out  what  I  had 
to  say  wrong  end  foremost,  she  understood.  It  was  not 
what  I  said  that  startled  her — it  was  my  taking  her  in 
my  arms.  She  was  like  a  girl  about  that,  and  she  took 
what  I  said  like  a  girl  perfectly  free  to  choose — I  told  you 
she  felt  free.  I  wanted  her  promise,  and  then  I  told  her 
I  would  go  to  her  father  and,  in  the  face  of  this  talk  Adele 
and  others  have  spread,  make  him  bring  St.  Claire  to 
time.  I  wanted  her  divorced  and  mine." 

"Yes,"  Alyth  said  in  the  same  thick  way,  "and — ?" 

"She  can't — love  me  ...  she'll  never  love  me — "  Jan- 
niss choked  on  it.  He  flung  aside  like  a  suffering  boy, 
and,  leaning  against  the  mantel-shelf,  buried  his  face  in 
his  folded  arms.  "God!  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do!" 

Alyth  drew  a  long  breath.  He  got  up  and  stood  look- 
ing about  him — at  the  shrouded  studio,  then  at  Janniss. 
...  A  boy's  despair  over  his  first  rebuff.  His  bent  head 
and  shaking  shoulders  made  him  look  very  like  a  boy — 
as  Dick  or  Jack  might  look  some  day. 

Alyth  took  the  step  that  brought  him  to  Janniss's  side. 
He  put  his  hand  on  Janniss's  shoulder.  "  Don't  go  under 
like  this,"  he  said.  "Are  you  going  to  throw  away  a 
future  such  as  yours  because  of  a  woman?  Love  means 
a  deal  to  us  men,  I'll  grant,  but  to  most  of  us  our  profession 
means  more — all  that  outside  life  in  which  we're  putting 
up  a  fight.  Man  was  a  fighting  beast  first,  a  loving  one 
later  on.  Your  art  is  the  core  of  you — are  you  going  to 

301 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

throw  it  away?  You're  not.  Not  any  more  than  I'm 
going  to  upset  my  universe  for  the  sake  of  love.  It's  the 
woman  who  can  do  a  thing  like  that  and  not  regret — I 
doubt  if  ever  a  man  did.  .  .  .  Pull  yourself  together,  Jan- 
niss." 

"That's  what  I'm  going  away  to  try  to  do,"  Janniss 
said,  through  bitten  lips.  "And  it's  the  best  thing  I  can 
do  for  her,  too.  Handled  as  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  ad- 
vises me  to  handle  this  talk  that's  going  the  rounds,  it  will 
be  the  best  vindication  of  Myra.  I  called  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice  up  when  I  got  back  here — I  got  her  out  of  bed 
to  listen  to  me.  She  has  plenty  of  good  hard  sense,  that 
little  woman — when  she  chooses  to  use  it — and  she's  the 
best  friend  to  women  I  know.  I'm  to  write  her  a  note, 
and  do  the  same  to  two  or  three  others,  Mrs.  Carson 
Ostrand  among  them,  and  simply  tell  the  truth:  that  I 
have  been  mad  over  Myra,  and  that  as  soon  as  Myra 
found  it  out  she  sacked  me — told  me  to  clear  out.  I  can 
do  that  much  for  the  woman  I  love."  He  had  gained 
firmness  as  he  went  on.  He  lifted  now  and  turned  to  the 
table.  "And  this  thing  I  painted  of  her — I  laid  it  out 
because  I  want  her  to  have  it.  Will  you  see  she  gets  it? 
And  tell  her  I've  gone,  will  you?  She'll  understand.  If 
I  try  to  write  I'll  only  blunder  into  the  whole  thing  again. 
.  .  .  She  likes  you;  she  has  told  me  so  more  than  once. 
Do  that  for  me,  will  you?" 

The  blood  surged  into  Alyth's  face.  He  answered  only 
when  Janniss,  conscious  of  his  silence,  turned.  "Yes." 

"And  you  had  better  finish  the  night  here.  Take  my 
bed  or  the  divan — whichever  you  like." 

"No,  I'll  go,"  Alyth  answered.  He  pointed  to  the  rim 
of  light  that  edged  the  covered  skylight.  "It's  not  night, 
Janniss,  it's  morning." 

Alyth  had  but  half  a  block  to  go,  and  he  walked  it  slow- 
ly, For  any  stir  of  life  that  showed,  the  street  might 

302 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

have  been  a  misty  thoroughfare  in  the  city  of  the  dead, 
his  hotel  entrance  the  sealed  door  to  a  morgue.  .  .  .  But  in 
the  east  the  sky  was  opalescent,  daylight  tinting  a  bank 
of  fog,  an  ocean  sunrise  with  its  suggestion  of  untravers- 
able  distances.  There  was  the  tang  of  salt  in  the  mist 
that  wrapped  him,  and  Alyth  took  off  his  hat  that  it 
might  touch  his  temples,  clean  his  brain  of  the  unwhole- 
some strain  of  the  last  weeks.  He  felt  infinitely  tired. 
.  .  .  Then  somewhere  to  the  south  there  stirred  a  murmur 
that  slowly  grew  into  a  roar — an  early  train  eating  its 
way  along  the  Elevated;  the  world  in  which  "man  puts 
up  his  fight"  at  close  quarters  was  waking,  and  suddenly 
there  lifted  in  Alyth  an  intense  loathing  of  the  crowded, 
breathless  struggle,  an  actual  physical  hunger  and  thirst 
for  the  open  places,  for  the  smell  of  earth,  for  the  sight 
and  "feel"  of  rock. 

And  as  he  stood  a  wish  that  had  lain  in  him  since  boy- 
hood crept  into  his  brain  and  laid  siege  to  it.  The  oldest 
mines  of  the  world — what  did  he  know  of  them?  His 
life-long  passion,  beside  which  love  seemed  the  smaller 
thing,  had  its  grip  on  him. 

"Go — why  not?"  he  said.  "It  may  be  the  solution 
for  me  as  it  will  be  for  him." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

JANNISS  had  described  exactly  Myra's  state  of  mind 
when  he  told  Alyth  that  if  he  had  struck  her  she  could 
not  have  been  more  "taken  aback."  It  was  that:  con- 
sternation over  the  blow  dealt  her  conviction  that  a 
friendship  in  which  the  sex  element  did  not  enter  was 
quite  possible  between  men  and  women.  She  had  willed 
that  such  should  be  their  relation  to  each  other,  and  for 
weeks  had  been  feeling  deep  satisfaction  in  the  working- 
out  of  her  theory,  and  here,  abruptly,  she  had  been  laid 
siege  to  in  primitive  masculine  fashion,  shown  that  she 
had  been  merely  deferred  to,  made  to  feel  that  she  had 
hurt  a  man  beyond  repair. 

Their  companionship  had  been  a  real  pleasure  to  Myra. 
She  had  become  attached  to  Janniss;  she  was  genuinely 
fond  of  him.  But  to  love  him !  To  connect  him  even  in 
a  remote  way  with  the  intimacies  of  love!  Such  a  de- 
nouement! The  possibility  had  never  once  entered  her 
mind.  Her  recoil  had  been  instinctive,  involuntary,  and 
the  more  convincing  for  that.  She  had  shrunk  from  his 
embrace  and  the  sudden  hot  pressure  of  his  lips — startled 
beyond  measure. 

"  It's  not  in  me  to  love  you !"  she  had  reiterated.  "How 
could  you  have  mistaken  me  so  utterly — I  have  simply 
liked  and  trusted  you!" 

There  had  been  much  to  say  after  that,  une  eclaircisse- 
ment  in  truth,  and  when,  finally,  just  before  he  left  her, 
Janniss  had  broken  down  completely,  had  flung  himself 
down  and,  with  head  buried  in  her  lap,  choked  over  his 

3°4 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

misery,  Myra's  eyes  had  grown  hot  with  tears,  and  what 
had  always  been  his  appeal  to  her  was  revealed.  He  was 
so  like  a  hurt  child  that  her  arms  had  gone  around  him. 

"I  feel  years  older  than  you,"  she  said,  her  cheek  against 
his  bent  head.  "Don't  you  see?  It's  always  been  like 
that,  and  it  could  never  be  anything  else." 

He  had  gone  then  and  left  her  to  distress  and  loneli- 
ness. Life  appeared  so  utterly  cheerless — a  busy  existence, 
but  unsatisfying.  Janniss's  sudden  departure  follow- 
ing on  the  heels  of  a  delightful  bit  of  scandal  caused 
lively  comments  in  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  circle.  Then 
almost  immediately  the  report  gained  footing  that  Mrs. 
St.  Claire,  like  a  true  coquette,  had  encouraged  the  artist 
and  then  thrown  him  over.  As  the  story  ran  it  detracted 
not  at  all  from  her  attractiveness;  it  simply  commonized 
her,  brought  her  to  the  level  of  the  gayest  in  Mrs.  Du 
Pont-Maurice's  set. 

Myra  shrank  inwardly  from  the  looks  of  smiling  curi- 
osity she  encountered,  and  felt  a  chill  contempt  for  the 
few  who  met  her  with  an  air  of  withdrawal.  She  felt  the 
same  disgust  of  society,  for  its  utter  inadequacy  to  in- 
terest that  had  made  her  social  efforts  at  Woodmansie 
Place  such  a  labor.  Life  was  certainly  to  some  extent 
hers  to  fashion  as  she  would.  Why  should  she  trouble 
about  society?  It  could  in  no  way  fill  the  vacancy  of 
which  she  was  acutely  conscious. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  objected  to  her  decision.  "Do 
not  forsake  society  altogether,  my  dear.  Be  satisfied  to 
use  it.  It  has  its  uses  to  one  who  knows  how  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  it,  and  it  has  a  troublesome  way  of  revenging 
itself  upon  those  who  are  tactless  enough  to  dispense 
with  it." 

"I  shall  have  to  begin  and  make  a  few  offerings  to  it, 
then,"  Myra  said,  wearily.  "A  small  scandal  or  two  does 
not  in  the  least  disturb  its  equilibrium,  provided  the 
offender  offers  it  a  sufficient  number  of  sweets.  I  realize 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

that  your  set  has  been  taking  stock  of  me  for  some  time 
and  is  about  prepared  to  answer  in  the  negative  the  ques- 
tion it  always  asks,  'What  is  there  in  it  for  me?'  I  have 
not  shown  myself  eager  enough  to  play  the  game.  Per- 
sonally I  should  prefer  to  drop  society,  step  uncom- 
promisingly into  the  ranks  of  the  workers.  But  I  know 
that  Miss  Wentworth  regards  my  social  connections  as  a 
decided  asset.  She  considers  social  gifts  a  great  help 
to  the  business  woman,  and  she  is  quite  right,  they  are." 

"Undoubtedly,  my  dear,  but  what  I  have  hoped  for 
was  that,  moving  among  people,  you  would  find  a  man 
you  could  love.  You  are  meant  for  marriage.  What  I 
want  is  to  see  you  with  home  and  children.  It  is  the 
only  thing  that  will  ever  really  satisfy  you." 

Myra  was  silent,  and  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  studied 
her  sympathetically.  She  looked  cold  and  unhappy,  as 
she  looked  at  Woodmansie  Place;  the  parting  with  Jan- 
russ  had  evidently  been  a  trial.  It  was  a  pity  things  had 
turned  out  as  they  had;  it  would  have  been  far  better 
for  Myra  had  she  been  able  to  love  Janniss.  Perhaps 
she  was  regretting  her  decision. 

So  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  ventured  a  little  farther. 
"I  confess,  my  dear,  I  have  hoped  that  you  and  Janniss 
would  plan  together  for  the  future.  .  .  .  But  you  have  sent 
him  away." 

"It  was  wisest  for  him  to  go,"  Myra  returned,  a  little 
shortly.  "I  could  never  love  Karl  Janniss."  There 
was  only  one  person  with  whom  Myra  wanted  to  talk 
frankly  on  the  subject,  and  that  was  Alyth. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  said  no  more.  Prom  what 
Janniss  had  told  her  it  must  have  been  a  painful  experi- 
ence for  Myra.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  sighed  inaudibly. 
She  had  wished  many  times  that  she  had  not  attempted 
to  meddle  in  Myra  St.  Claire's  future;  there  might  worse 
yet  come  of  it.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  never  entire- 
ly recovered  from  her  panic  over  George  Alyth.  And  just 

306 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

now  she  was  aroused  by  Adele's  attack  upon  Myra,  and 
the  attitude  of  several  of  her  friends  that  the  mere  fact 
of  a  woman's  being  discussed  condemned  her.  Adele 
she  had  cast  off  with  an  expression  of  hot  wrath: 

"Learn  once  for  all  that  I'm  woman1 's  friend ,"  she  said, 
cuttingly.  "I'll  not  stand  for  the  woman  who  maligns 
another  woman.  I  have  stood  by  you  when  you  were 
being  abused  for  your  mad  unconventionalities,  because 
in  such  matters  I  refuse  to  draw  the  usual  distinction 
between  man  and  woman.  And  I  have  no  intention  now 
of  peaching  on  you,  but  from  this  time  on  I  do  not  know 
you,  Adele  Courland.  I  am  quite  done  with  you!  ...  I 
have,  however,  a  bit  of  advice  to  give  in  parting;  endeavor 
to  recover  from  the  idea  that  every  woman  is  born  enemy 
of  her  sister.  The  conception  is  so  old  that  it  is  at  last 
falling  to  pieces,  and  God  speed  its  departure!"  Her 
white  head  had  continued  to  tremble  for  a  long  time  after 
she  had  parted  from  Adele. 

It  shook  now  as  she  looked  at  Myra,  for  she  was  anxious; 
a  woman  with  Myra's  mood  upon  her  was  a  little  incal- 
culable, and  in  Myra's  case  there  was  a  danger  close  at 
hand.  The  girl  was  hurt  and  lonely.  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice  had  a  great  fear  of  loneliness. 

"Why  do  you  suppose  that  Alyth  man  has  treated  me 
as  he  has,  Myra?"  she  asked,  a  little  abruptly.  "Have 
you  seen  anything  of  him?  I  think  he  has  behaved 
abominably  to  me!"  It  was  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's 
method  of  learning  what  she  wanted  to  know. 

Myra's  eyes  widened  slightly.  Had  her  own  intense 
thinking  upon  the  subject  infected  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice? 
Her  answer  was  even  enough,  however,  and  the  same  as 
always. 

"I  don't  know — I  have  no  means  of  knowing.  I  have 
not  seen  him  since  the  night  he  dined  with  you." 

"He  has  been  in  town,  for  I  hear  that  Janniss  has  been 
painting  him,"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  remarked. 

307 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Yes,  so  Janniss  told  me." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  hesitated;  should  she  warn 
Myra?  She  decided  against  it.  If  an  inclination  lurked 
in  Myra,  any  suggestion  would  work  more  harm  than 
good.  She  advised  her  cheerily,  however,  before  she 
departed:  "This  little  stir  of  Adele's  doesn't  amount  to 
anything,  ma  chere.  Don't  let  it  worry  you;  it  will  wear 
off.  Keep  yourself  free  of  men  who  are  attached,  and 
all  will  go  well  with  you." 

"It  doesn't  worry  me — as  you  mean,"  Myra  assured 
her.  "I  am  afraid  I  was  born  with  a  big  indifference  to 
the  opinions  of  most  people.  There  are  always  a  few, 
however,  that  one  hopes  do  not  misunderstand." 

Myra  was  thinking  of  Alyth.  All  winter  she  had  won- 
dered over  his  neglect.  What  had  she  done  to  alienate 
her  friend?  When  Janniss  had  spoken  of  him  as  a  fre- 
quent visitor  her  wonder  had  changed  to  hurt.  Next  to 
herself  he  knew  more  of  her  difficulties  and  the  reasons 
for  the  step  she  had  taken  than  any  one  else.  She  had 
felt  so  certain  that  she  had  his  sympathy  and  approval. 
She  had  thought  again  and  again  of  what  he  had  said  to 
her  at  New  Rome:  "If  ever  there  is  anything  I  can  do 
for  you  as  man  for  man,  let  me  know." 

What  had  changed  his  attitude  toward  her? 

Myra  had  questioned  herself  endlessly,  until  Janniss's 
small  painting,  neatly  packed  and  accompanied  by  a 
note  from  Alyth,  reached  her.  A  something  hidden  from 
her  that  Myra's  swift  intuition  read  between  the  lines  hurt 
her  so  terribly  that  it  amounted  to  a  shock.  Her  friend 
in  whom  she  had  confided  write  to  her  in  this  constrained 
way!  Write  and  not  come  to  see  her!  There  was  some- 
thing back  of  it  all  that  she  could  not  grasp.  .  .  .  Was  it 
possible  that  Alyth  misjudged  her  friendship  for  Janniss? 

The  thing  had  made  her  so  miserable  that  she  had  had 
merely  surface  attention  to  give  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice. 
It  was  that  night,  after  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  left 

308 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

her,  that  there  came  as  a  tremendous  relief  the  suggestion: 
the  direct  way  was  always  the  best.  Had  her  acquaint- 
ance with  Alyth  been  such  that  it  precluded  a  straight- 
forward question?  She  had  had  his  note  by  her  for  ten 
days;  she  answered  it  now,  writing  as  simply  and  as  di- 
rectly as  she  would  have  spoken: 

DEAR  MR.  ALYTH, — Thank  you  for  sending  me  Mr.  Janniss's 
painting  and  his  message.  I  think  he  did  wisely  and  kindly  to 
go.  His  work  is  really  the  biggest  thing  in  the  world  to  him, 
and  eagerness  for  it  is  certain  to  come  back.  I  am  sure  of  it. 
I  was  too  startled  at  first  to  think,  but  since,  now  that  I  have 
had  time,  I  feel  very  certain  that  Mr.  Janniss's  feeling  for  me 
is  not  a  thing  that  will  do  him  any  permanent  hurt.  I  think  it 
is  an  infatuation,  not  love.  He  thought  of  me  always  as  the 
paintable  woman.  He  saw  me  always  on  canvas,  in  color — 
he  felt  me  in  color.  If  he  ever  dreamed  of  me  as  a  life  com- 
panion, a  life-builder  with  him,  it  was  very  vaguely.  In  a 
glorified  way  he  looked  upon  me  as  a  model.  Some  time  he  will 
love  very  differently.  I  have  always  talked  frankly  to  you,  so 
I  tell  you  what  is  my  conviction. 

And  I  am  also  going  to  be  candid  in  another  matter.  When 
we  first  talked  in  New  Rome  it  was  you  who  said,  "One  does  not 
apologize  to  a  friend."  So  I  am  going  to  ask  without  apology 
— why  is  it  we  have  not  seen  each  other  this  winter?  Has  it 
been  my  fault  or  yours  or  the  fault  of  some  third  person?  Your 
note  is  not  as  I  have  known  you.  Can  we  not  be  honest  with 
each  other?  It  hurts  me  to  imagine  that  possibly  I  have  lost 
your  friendship.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  feel  that  I  have. 
As  always,  I  am 

Your  friend, 

MYRA  ST.  CLAIRE. 

It  lay  on  Alyth's  desk  the  next  morning,  was  gathered 
up  with  other  letters  and  delivered  to  him  as  his  steamer 
slowly  melted  into  the  fog  of  the  Atlantic.  It  lay  in  his 
breast  pocket  thereafter,  a  bit  of  sincerity  to  be  met,  to 
be  answered,  as  best  he  could. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ON  an  afternoon  early  in  April  Myra  was  being  borne 
smoothly  down  Riverside  Drive  in  Hipbard's  car. 
They  had  passed  Grant's  tomb,  which  Myra  eyed  with  a 
certain  unseeing  steadiness,  as  she  did  the  crowd  that 
crawled  over  its  steps  and  lined  the  park  promenade.  She 
had  spent  the  day  at  Hipbard's  country  house  transacting 
business  in  a  business-like  way,  and  for  business  reasons 
had  consented  to  motor  into  town  with  him;  the  hire  of 
a  motor  meant  a  charge  to  her  firm.  Hipbard's  architect 
frequently  rode  in  and  out  with  him,  and  she  was  his 
decorator — wherein  lay  the  difference?  It  was  the  atti- 
tude she  had  adopted  and  consistently  maintained.  And 
after  his  fashion,  Hipbard  was  apparently  endeavoring 
to  adapt  himself.  He  had  dropped  gallantry  for  jocose- 
ness,  teemed  with  anecdotes  and  risque  stories,  regarding 
himself  evidently  as  a  wit.  It  appeared  to  Myra  that  he 
was  really  trying  to  treat  her  as  he  would  a  man.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  easier  to  endure  than  his  former  sex- 
conscious  encroachments. 

But  she  had  just  been  made  to  feel  how  vast  a  differ- 
ence there  was,  viewed  from  Hipbard's  standpoint.  He 
had  just  made  a  proposal  that  had  brought  Myra's  teeth 
together,  and  doubled  into  a  fist  the  hand  that  lay  in  her 
lap. 

"I  don't  believe  in  marriage  myself — I've  never  been 
a  marrying  man — and  I  think  a  woman  who  is  out  for 
herself  is  foolish  to  indulge  in  it;  but  there  is  no  earthly 
reason  why  she  should  bottle  up  her  temperament,"  he  had 

310 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

suggested,  easily.  "She  needs  a  safety-valve;  it's  really 
a  preventive  measure — necessary  for  good  health — a  guard 
against  explosion.  .  .  .  Doesn't  it  strike  you  that  way? .  .  . 
You  needn't  be  afraid  to — confide  in  me,  Mrs.  St.  Claire. 
I'm  the  safest  of  friends — " 

Myra  eyed  the  monument  and  the  crowd.  "No,  I 
don't  agree  with  you,"  she  said,  calmly.  "I  have  a  big 
respect  for  marriage — most  women  have,  even  when  it 
is  impractical.  Women  have,  I  think,  as  a  general  thing, 
a  keen  enough  regard  for  our  purpose  in  the  cosmos  to 
be  able  to  restrain  our  'temperaments.'"  She  turned 
then  and  looked  at  him,  his  thick  hands  and  ample  girth, 
and  lastly  directly  into  his  shrewd  little  eyes,  and  her  face 
was  more  expressive  than  she  knew.  "My  observation 
of  the  woman  who  is  out  for  herself  is  that  if  not  morally 
restrained  she  is  at  least  fastidiously  constrained."  She 
bit  the  last  words  off;  she  could  not  help  it. 

Hipbard  flamed  scarlet.  "You  evidently  like  us 
young." 

Myra  paled  a  little  under  the  fling.  The  reference  was 
to  Janniss,  and  she  knew  it.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she 
had  been  made  to  suffer  for  that  unconventionality  of  hers. 
Then  it  suddenly  flashed  across  Myra's  anger  that  it  was 
foolish  to  be  upset  by  stupidity,  that  the  man's  miscon- 
ception of  her  was  laughable  rather  than  enraging,  that, 
like  most  men,  Hipbard  had  a  ridiculously  hopeless  jumble, 
of  impressions  regarding  the  woman  who  was  out  for  her- 
self, the  old  conceptions  inextricably  tangled  up  with 
the  new. 

She  did  laugh,  unexpectedly.  "In  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury we  were  either  angels  or  devils.  In  this  scientific 
age  we  are  either  troubled  by  'temperament,'  wanting  in 
'temperament' — negatively,  comparatively,  or  superla- 
tively 'sexed'!  .  .  .  Then  as  to  what  I  like:  I  like  men 
chivalrous,  or,  that  being  out  of  the  question,  at  least 
comradely." 

311 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Well,  you  feminists  have  set  up  your  right  to  walk 
alone,"  he  retorted,  half  sulkily,  half  shrewdly.  "We're 
just  watching  to  see  how  well  you'll  do  it."  They  had 
drawn  up  at  Myra's  door,  and  his  manner  suddenly 
changed  to  the  wheedling.  "  Come,  be  friends,"  he  urged. 
"Aren't  you  going  to  ask  me  up  for  a  cup  of  tea?" 

Myra  reflected  that  among  other  things  he  evidently 
thought  her  a  fool.  "No,"  she  said.  "You  have  your 
business  friends;  I  have  mine.  All  I  ask  is  that  they 
keep  to  business,"  and,  nodding  brightly,  she  ran  up  the 
steps,  leaving  him  a  somewhat  foolishly  stocky  figure 
holding  open  the  door  of  his  car. 

But  in  the  hall  Myra  walked  slowly,  the  light  wiped 
from  her  face.  She  gave  her  hat  and  her  gloves  silently 
to  her  maid  and,  going  into  the  window  alcove,  sat  down. 
She  was  too  tired  and  disgusted  to  change. 

"Shall  I  bring  tea?"  the  maid  asked. 

"No,"  Myra  said,  then,  with  the  contrariety  that  had 
grown  on  her  of  late,  she  changed  her  mind.  "Yes,  bring 
it;  it  may  rest  me." 

She  sat  on  the  window-seat  and  looked  out  over  the 
river,  but  not  with  eyes  that  saw  anything  in  particular. 
Such  an  incident  as  that  of  the  afternoon  was  not  pleasant, 
still  she  must  consider  the  source  and  also  the  justification 
that  Hipbard  undoubtedly  thought  he  had.  Myra  had 
been  taught  many  times  since  Janniss's  departure  the 
truth  of  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  assertion  that  man  is 
the  cruelest  adherent  to  convention.  His  predisposition 
to  the  worst  construction  had  been  shown  her  by  one  man 
and  another,  playfully  or  significantly,  in  accordance  with 
the  nature  of  the  man,  yet  varying  little  in  the  viewpoint. 
She  was  out  for  herself,  and  too  independently  inclined, 
therefore  a  subject  for  testing  and  tempting,  the  handling 
and  the  bandying,  the  soiling  of  a  beautiful  thing,  man's 
need  of  woman,  woman's  need  of  man.  She  was  clever 
enough  to  steer  her  way  through  it  and  regard  the  matter 

312 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

philosophically  as  long  as  she  was  not  misjudged  by  those 
whose  opinion  she  valued.  She  had  written  to  Alyth 
out  of  her  utmost  sincerity,  taking  for  granted  that  he 
must  understand,  and  she  had  had  silence  as  a  reply.  It 
was  over  two  weeks  since  she  had  written. 

There  was  where  the  hurt  lay;  the  thing  that  had 
robbed  her  days  of  satisfaction  and  made  her  nights 
restless,  that  made  the  careful  cultivation  of  certain 
people  who  were  likely  to  be  of  assistance  to  her  an 
intolerable  duty.  She  had  grown  irritable  under  the  hurt 
of  it.  It  was  as  if  something  solid  and  accountable  had 
dropped  out  of  her  universe. 

She  took  her  tea,  then  opened  the  notes  that  had  come 
in  the  afternoon  mail,  and  reluctantly  lifted  the  evening 
paper.  Under  it  was  a  letter  bearing  the  English  post- 
mark and  addressed  in  a  blunt  vertical  hand.  She  did 
not  recognize  the  writing,  and  the  foreign  mark  meant 
nothing  to  her.  Who  could  be  writing  her  from  England? 

The  letter  was  twice  folded,  bringing  the  signature 
into  view,  and  Myra  sat  upright  under  the  surprise  of  it. 
Alyth  wrote: 

DEAR  MRS.  ST.  CLAIRE, — Your  letter  was  given  me  on  the 
steamer,  and  too  late  for  an  answer.  It  was  kind  of  you  to 
miss  me,  and  like  your  always  perfect  sincerity  to  tell  me  so. 
Thank  you  for  caring  enough  to  do  it.  I  have  thought  of  you 
often;  I  have  frequently  wanted  to  come,  but  as  things  were  I 
would  simply  have  been  in  the  way.  Janniss  did  not  tell  me 
until  the  night  before  he  left,  but  I  knew  how  it  was  with  him. 
As  for  misjudging  you — such  a  thing  never  entered  my  mind. 
Why  should  it?  I  have  wanted  for  you  the  best  life  could 
give. 

I  am  on  a  somewhat  lengthy  mission.  I  shall  be  almost  a 
month  in  England,  where  I  have  several  visits  to  make  and 
much  business  to  transact.  Then  two  weeks  in  France,  two 
weeks  in  Germany — possibly  three — and  then  I  go  to  Russia. 
I  am  satisfying  a  longing  I  have  had  ever  since  I  was  a  boy. 
A  mine  is  to  me  a  great  inspiration,  as  thrilling  a  joy  as  a  master- 

313 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

piece  of  art  is  to  Janniss.  The  mines  of  Africa  and  of  South 
America  I  know;  I  have  been  often  to  England  and  the  more 
traveled  parts  of  Europe;  but  some  of  the  oldest  mines  in  the 
world  I  have  never  seen.  I  have  only  dreamed  about  them — 
the  mines  of  Russia,  the  Siberian  mines,  and  the  mines  of  the 
Caucasus.  In  China  are  vast  mines  of  which  very  little  is 
known.  I  have  begun  on  a  sort  of  big  spree,  and  with  the 
deliberate  intention  of  becoming  and  remaining  intoxicated  for 
many  months.  I  hope  to  eradicate  some  habits  of  thought  and 
feeling  that  were  becoming  too  much  for  me. 

But  I  should  like  to  know  a  little  of  your  life  in  the  mean 
time — as  much  as  you  will  consent  to  tell  me.  I  will  send  you  a 
list  of  places  where  letters  will  reach  me,  if  you  feel  that  a  few 
words  to  me  now  and  then  will  not  be  a  task?  I'll  gladly  tell 
you  something  of  my  wanderings  if  you  care  to  hear? 

Will  you  work  throughout  the  summer?  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice  will  be  gone,  New  York  empty.  Won't  your  mother 
come  to  you,  or  you  go  to  her? 

With  always  more  than  merely  good  wishes, 
Yours  faithfully, 

GEORGE  ALYTH. 

A  supreme  relief  may  be  a  transport:  Myra  kissed  that 
restrained  letter  as  passionately  as  any  lover.  Her  friend 
had  returned  to  her.  And  when  she  again  looked  out  she 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the  trees  beneath  her 
window  were  in  half-leaf,  and  that  across  the  river  the 
browns  of  winter  were  tinted  with  green.  Spring  had 
come  suddenly. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

TO  Myra's  great  relief  one  after  another  the  people  to 
whom  she  was  forced  to  give  of  her  precious  time 
faded  into  the  vague  distances  usual  to  a  hot  New  York 
summer.  Even  from  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  she  parted 
without  any  great  regret,  for  during  the  last  two  months 
her  life  had  grown  so  full  and  satisfying. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  not  known  what  to  make  of 
her,  Myra  had  changed  so  completely.  In  the  early 
spring  she  had  looked  thin  and  worn,  and  appeared  so 
listless,  and  then  suddenly,  when  the  summer  heat  was 
depleting  every  one  else.  Myra  bad  bloomed.  She  ap- 
peared absorbed,  her  smile  a  little  wistful,  her  air  wrapt, 
nevertheless  quite  content.  Something  had  come  over  the 
girl.  If  she  had  not  known  so  well  how  little  Myra  saw 
of  men,  she  would  have  declared  that  she  was  in  love. 
Possibly  it  was  her  business  success  that  satisfied  Myra; 
Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  knew  that  she  was  becoming  an 
important  factor  in  Miss  Wentworth's  firm.  Whatever 
the  cause,  the  change  was  vastly  for  the  better.  She  had 
been  well  pleased  when  she  heard  that  George  Alyth  was 
traveling  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  A  sensible  man  that ! 
And  Mrs.  Milenberg  was  coming  to  take  Myra  away  for  a 
holiday  in  August.  So  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  left  for 
her  usual  summer  in  Europe  easy  in  her  mind  about 
Myra. 

The  truth  was  that  Myra  was  indulging  in  what  she 
thought  was  a  feast  of  the  soul.     All  that  had  to  do  with 
the  physical  union  of  man  and  woman  had  dropped  out  of 
21  '  3iS 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

sight.  She  had  always  dreamed  of  the  sort  of  satisfaction 
she  was  having.  She  was  carried  far  above  thought  of 
hers  and  Alyth's  disability;  mentally  she  and  he  were 
free,  and  at  one  with  each  other. 

Alyth's  letters  came  as  frequently  as  the  Atlantic  mails 
could  bring  them.  They  had  grown  pages  long.  Just  as 
with  Myra,  he  was  giving  his  intellect  full  swing.  He  was 
endeavoring  with  all  his  will  to  drop  out  of  his  mind  the 
thoughts  that  for  so  many  months  had  made  life  a  torment. 
He  tried,  and  as  a  general  thing  succeeded,  in  reaching 
and  in  keeping  to  Myra's  altitude.  He  watched  for  her 
letters  as  hungrily  as  she  did  for  his,  for  it  was  increasingly 
plain  to  him  that  he  possessed  the  intellectual  Myra 
completely,  and  that  was  no  small  part  of  her.  Her 
revelation  of  herself  interested  his  analytical  spirit.  Her 
Teutonic  strain,  the  German's  inclination  to  philosophy 
and  sentiment,  made  him  smile  sometimes,  it  so  often  and 
so  amusingly  jostled  her  American  downrightness.  Then 
again  her  letters  contained  flashes  of  humor  and  of  keen 
intuition  that  delighted  him. 

But  the  thing  that  drew  Alyth  close,  that  made  him 
more  completely  her  lover,  was  the  full  and  glad  way  in 
which  she  gave  of  herself.  At  times,  and  in  spite  of  his 
determination  not  to  recognize  it,  he  felt  that  he  possessed 
more  than  simply  the  intellectual  Myra,  a  possibility  that 
went  to  his  head  like  wine.  What  woman  would  open  so 
generously  to  a  man  her  store  of  impressions,  so  heap  his 
arms  with  her  thoughts  and  her  feelings,  if  love  were  not 
stirring  in  her?  It  made  him  intolerably  restive  under  the 
necessary  concealment  of  his  intensely  human  need  of  her. 
She  was  showing  herself  so  completely  lovable  that  he 
came  near  to  a  confession;  in  spite  of  himself,  flashes  of 
desire  escaped  him. 

But  it  was  weeks  before  the  truth  broke  upon  Myra — 
not  until  in  July,  just  before  her- mother  came,  while  she 
was  quite  alone.  Early  in  July  Irma  had  passed  through 

316 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

New  York  a  bride,  and  Myra  had  written  sadly  about  it 
to  Alyth: 

"Poor  Irma!  I  felt  as  if  she  was  pushing  off  into 
mid-ocean,  and  quite  alone,  to  test  the  seaworthiness 
of  her  small  craft.  I  have  never  before  known  Irma  to 
falter,  but  in  her  cabin  choked  with  flowers  she  suddenly 
clung  to  me.  'I  wish  it  wasn't  just  as  it  is,'  she  said; 
'  but  I  was  so  sick  of  Chicago  and  having  no  position.  I 
don't  know — I  don't  know  how  it  will  be.'  .  .  .  And  I  am 
frightened  for  her,  too,  poor  ignorant  little  sister,  entering 
upon  the  great  responsibility  and  without  love  to  help 
her.  And  when  I  met  him — all  one  side  of  life  drained 
to  the  dregs ! .  .  .  The  saddest  thing  is  that  the  punishment 
for  making  a  convenience  of  marriage  is  not  visited  upon 
the  transgressor  alone.  It  seems  to  me  such  an  insult 
to  the  little  unborn  children." 

Then  she  had  written  shrinkingly  of  marriage,  and  in 
conclusion:  "I  feel  that  there  should  be  a  more  rational 
arrangement  than  a  binding  marriage  by  which  a  man 
and  woman  can  learn  the  reality  of  each  other — before 
they  finally  link  themselves  to  the  great  race  interest. 
I  remember  it  was  a  question  I  asked  my  mother  long 
ago — before  I  made  my  mistake.  Just  a  little  of  the 
intimate  knowledge  that  comes  with  marriage,  and  I 
should  have  been  saved.  ...  I  have  struck  out  for  my- 
self— cut  away  from  my  old  desires.  There  is  joy  in 
accomplishment,  and  a  great  happiness  in  such  a  friend- 
ship as  ours.  Life  is  giving  me  a  great  deal,  after  all. 
I  am  content." 

Alyth's  answer  came  to  her  late  in  July.  He  wrote 
more  briefly  than  usual.  "I  do  not  like  to  think  of  you 
as  departing  from  your  old  ideals.  Your  old  viewpoint 
was  the  right  one — the  only  one.  Don't  lose  that  tre- 
mendous respect  that  used  to  be  yours  for  the  big  issue — 
'  life-building,'  you  once  called  it.  Marriage  is  the  only 
practicable  outlet  for  that  instinct  that  is  stronger  in  you 

3*7 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

than  in  most  women.  It  ought  not  to  be  side-tracked 
or  thwarted.  Your  freedom  will  come  one  of  these  days, 
and  then  life  will  be  open  before  you. 

"To  you  the  ideal  marriage  is  a  possibility.  To  me 
it  is  something  more  unsubstantial  than  a  dream.  I  see 
no  way  out  for  me.  If  I  had  a  different  nature  to  con- 
tend with  in  Caroline —  But  she  is  revenging  herself  for 
the  unalterable  estimate  I  have  of  her.  She  will  continue 
to  revenge  herself.  I  have  discovered  a  certain  deep 
hatred  of  me  in  Caroline  that  is  the  outgrowth  of  our 
mutual  unsuitability.  I  did  not  realize  the  force  of  it 
until  last  winter  I  asked  her  for  my  freedom.  I  do  not 
believe  in  the  disruption  of  families,  so  I  have  always 
tacitly  acquiesced  to  her  ruling  in  the  matter,  but  last 
winter  my  desire  to  be  free  got  the  better  of  me.  I  dis- 
covered in  her  the  true  dog-in-the-manger  spirit — as  I 
am  she  means  I  shall  remain." 

He  turned  then  abruptly  to  other  subjects.  He  had 
told  her  in  other  letters  that  early  in  July  he  intended 
to  go  to  Siberia.  But  he  was  still  in  Caucasia.  In  pre- 
vious letters  he  had  written  fully  of  the  mines  near  Chiaturi, 
that  produced  one-half  of  the  world's  supply  of  man- 
ganese. He  had  described  the  village  of  Chiaturi,  and 
the  Kvirila  River.  The  topography  of  the  district  appeared 
to  fascinate  him. 

But  now  he  wrote  from  Tiflis.  He  did  not  explain  why 
he  had  come  to  Tiflis,  or,  as  was  usual  with  him,  give  any 
description  of  the  place.  His  children  appeared  to  be 
on  his  mind;  he  wrote  at  some  length  of  Dick.  Then  in 
conclusion  he  said:  "Myra,  if  it  comes  to  you,  the  oppor- 
tunity— a  man  you  can  love — marry  him.  Your  happi- 
ness lies  that  way.  Make  your  father  straighten  things 
out  for  you.  And  don't  let  thoughts  of  any  man  who 
has  nothing  to  offer  you  stand  in  the  way.  That  would 
mean  shipwreck  for  you.  If  anything  should  go  wrong 
with  you,  it  would  finish  me." 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

A  letter  utterly  unlike  any  other — anxious,  unadorned, 
unhappy. 

It  brought  the  truth  to  Myra.  The  letter  had  come 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  sat  over  it  a  long  time,  not 
shocked,  simply  assimilating  the  wonder,  making  sure  of 
it.  She  brought  out  the  thick  packet  of  letters  and  read 
until  the  darkness  of  a  cloudy  evening  closed  in  on  her; 
then,  with  the  drop-light  at  her  shoulder,  she  continued 
to  read,  steadily,  absorbedly,  her  breath  short,  her  hands 
nervous. 

Myra  was  reading  with  a  new  understanding,  seeing 
clearly  enough  now.  His  very  self-restraint  belied  him. 
There  were  pages  of  description,  observations  on  condi- 
tions about  him,  comparisons,  comments  on  racial  char- 
acteristics, the  well-balanced  views  of  a  man  who  had 
traveled  much,  and  with  eyes  always  open  and  critical 
spirit  alert.  But  the  core  of  his  thought,  his  desire  for 
her,  crept  out  in  every  controlled  word  as  nakedly  as  in 
the  occasional  breaking-away  from  restraint  that  penned 
a  burning  sentence.  Without  asseverations  he  stood  re- 
vealed her  lover,  impassioned,  desperately  in  need,  who 
had  gone  away  as  much  for  her  sake  as  his,  and  to  whom 
distance  was  proving  a  scourge,  not  a  cure. 

And  she?  .  .  .  From  the  deeps  of  her  came  the  answer. 
.  .  .  Step  by  step,  unsuspecting,  unpremeditating,  she  had 
come  into  love,  the  immense  thing,  the  dream  of  her  girl- 
hood, the  longed-for  thing  that  had  grown  with  her 
womanhood — a  love  that  was  of  the  soul  as  well  as  the 
body,  the  essence  of  true  life-building.  .  .  . 

And  there  followed  upon  the  tensity  of  emotion  no 
regret,  no  fear.  Their  problem  would  be  theirs  to  solve, 
and  they  would  solve  it. 

Myra  kept  vigil  that  night,  sitting  in  her  window, 
sprayed  occasionally  with  damp,  for  there  was  rain  in  the 
hot  air — not  a  storm,  only  a  steady  dripping  from  the 
impenetrable  blackness  overhead.  Sitting  as  she  was  in 

319 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

the  bow  of  the  window,  an  outthrust  high  above  even  the 
trees  of  the  Drive,  she  had  the  feeling  of  being  hung  out 
in  space,  the  river  a  black  abyss  dotted  with  lights,  some 
that  moved  slowly,  like  lanterns  borne  along  by  invisible 
hands,  others  immovable  save  for  their  own  starlike  twink- 
ling. She  felt  miles  away  from  her  usual  surroundings, 
adrift  in  space,  the  littlenesses  of  life  fallen  away  from  her. 

Morning  necessarily  brought  her  to  the  immediate 
present:  how  be  true  to  the  sincerity  she  knew  he  loved 
in  her  and  conceal  what  she  had  learned?  Was  it  neces- 
sary that  she  conceal  and  wait  as  women  had  been  taught 
to  do?  For  the  first  time  Myra  missed  an  outgoing  mail. 

Her  question  was  solved  for  her.  Alyth's  next  letter 
was  no  more  than  a  note,  brief,  ill-written,  only  a  few  sen- 
tences, and  expressive  of  overwhelming  depression.  Some- 
thing had  given  way  in  the  man.  He  was  still  at  Tiflis; 
he  gave  no  indication  of  moving  on,  no  explanation  of  his 
brevity.  In  concluding  he  said:  "To-night  I  am  facing 
one  of  the  incidents  of  life  for  which  we  are  never  pre- 
pared. I  would  not  blench  before  it  if  you  and  Dick  were 
beside  me." 

What  did  he  mean?  Something  was  terribly  wrung 
with  him,  and  she  was  helpless  to  reach  him.  She  wrote 
anxiously  and  tenderly,  quite  unthinking  of  how  she 
expressed  herself,  her  love  plainly  enough  revealed,  and 
also  without  asseverations.  She  was  simply  an  intensely 
loving  woman  in  great  anxiety  over  the  man  she  loved. 

Long  before  her  letter  reached  Alyth  the  explanation 
came.  It  was  almost  illegibly  penciled  on  scraps  from  his 
note-book,  a  stopping  and  then  a  going  on,  like  the  brief 
animations  and  long  pauses  of  a  spent  runner:  "You 
are  not  to  distress  yourself,"  he  wrote,  "and  in  any  case 
you  are  not  to  mourn — we  have  found  each  other,  groping 
in  the  dark,  as  it  were;  and  though  miles  apart,  we  have 
joined  hands.  In  the  face  of  the  great  separation  I  can 
no  longer  maintain  a  disguise.  I  love  you,  and  I  ran  away 

320 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

from  the  realization  of  it.  If  I  had  had  more  courage 
we  would  be  together  now. 

"  I  am  down  with  typhoid.  I  picked  up  the  germ  some- 
where. I  knew  what  it  was  when  I  wrote  you  last,  and  the 
fear  that  I  might  never  see  you  again  unmanned  me.  The 
fever  had  hold  of  me — I  don't  know  just  what  I  wrote. 
This  is  written  in  snatches,  when  the  fever  gives  me 
strength  and  before  it  sets  my  wits  to  wandering — for 
there  is  something.  .  .  . 

"If  no  cable  precedes  this  you  may  know  that  I  am 
still  fighting.  If  I  pull  through  it  will  be  because  I 
cannot  go  without  seeing  you.  That  desire  is  all'  of  me 
now — and  it  is  tremendous  enough,  surely,  to  animate  my 
body?  Can  death  master  me  if  I  will  powerfully  enough 
that  it  shall  not?" 

The  next  was  on  a  separate  sheet:  "  I  want  you  to  have 
the  truth;  it  may  be  my  only  legacy  to  you.  ...  It  came 
little  by  little,  my  hunger  for  you.  I  often  follow  its 
course.  In  New  Rome  your  big  capacity  to  love,  as  well 
as  that  fine  sincerity  that  is  you,  entered  into  my  con- 
sciousness. The  two  went  hand  in  hand  in  my  thoughts 
of  you.  At  Woodmansie  Place  you  compelled  me,  and 
filled  me  with  anxiety.  You  have  never  been  out  of  my 
thoughts  from  that  day  to  this.  I  wished  you  well — I  had 
the  desire  to  watch  over  you,  and  always  distinct  from 
the  craving  to  have  and  hold  you  as  my  possession.  I 
have  known  from  the  beginning  how  much  dross  there  was 
in  my  love — that  anything  you  gave  me  would  be  bigger 
and  finer  than  my  capacity  .  .  .  and  yet  is  it  dross,  that 
craving  for  one's  mate?  That  obsession — the  terrific 
hunger  and  thirst?  I  tried  not  to  bring  it  to  you.  lean- 
not  count  the  times  I  came  to  your  door,  and  then  gath- 
ered courage  to  go  on.  I  struggled  not  to  call  out  in  you 
the  same  craving  that  was  consuming  me.  For  I  have 
always  known  that  you  possessed  mate-hunger  in  big 
measure.  I  saw  you  give  it  to  one  man,  and  because  of 

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THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

his  utter  barrenness  take  back  the  priceless  treasure. 
My  love  has  not  been  all  selfishness." 

And  on  still  another  sheet :  "They  have  taken  me  away 
from  the  hotel.  It  is  not  a  bad  place,  this  little  white 
hospital.  One  of  the  nurses  speaks  English  and  writes  it. 
She  has  promised  to  send  this.  She  will  write.  She  will 
cable  if  that  becomes  necessary.  Her  name  is  Mitka 
Kerkoff." 

And  on  another  scrap  that  on  its  other  side  bore  neat 
notes  of  ore  assayed  in  South  America  the  year  before: 
"If  I  go  won't  it  be  the  best  solution?  Then  in  spite  of 
me  the  best  in  me  will  have  conquered.  If  I  live  I  will 
hurt  you." 

And  again:  "I  am  desperately  afraid  about  Dick. 
He  is  my  son,  not  Caroline's.  Their  natures  are  antago- 
nistic. She  will  ruin  him.  I  wish  I  could  leave  my  boy 
to  you.  The  great  unsatisfied  mother  in  you  would 
cherish  him  and  make  a  man  of  him.  It  is  the  biggest 
urge  in  you,  really,  the  tremendous  creative  energy  of 
love." 

And  at  the  last:  "I  have  given  up  my  pencil.  There 
are  tears  in  my  nurse's  eyes.  She  will  not  forget  you,  for 
I  have  talked  to  her  about  you.  . . .  When  the  fever  has  me 
her  cool  hand  against  my  cheek  is  always  yours.  ...  If 
only  I  could  hear  you  say  you  love  me  ..." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

MYRA  gave  herself  utterly  in  her  answer  to  his  cry; 
it  might  reach  him  in  time;  it  might  call  him  back. 

If  the  completest  love  is  the  outgrowth  of  suffering, 
then  the  thing  that  in  those  days  of  waiting  grew  and 
grew  in  Myra  until  it  was  all  of  her  was  love  at  its  highest. 
He  was  passing  away  from  her,  her  lover  and  her  child, 
the  man  whose  touch  she  would  never  feel,  the  child, 
helpless  and  in  pain,  who  called  to  her,  but  whom  she 
could  not  reach.  The  world  had  grown  vague;  objects 
lacked  substance;  voices,  intonation.  Like  the  victim  of 
hahshish,  she  walked  isolated  in  a  magnified  space. 

Yet  she  gave  no  sign,  except  of  almost  perfect  silence. 
There  was  no  one  to  whom  she  could  speak.  Her  mother 
would  think  her  love  a  sin.  To  her  mother  she  appeared 
much  as  she  had  after  her  illness  at  New  Rome,  only  older, 
graver,  more  aloof.  Mrs.  Milenberg  regarded  her  pity- 
ingly; she  had  chosen  to  go  out  into  the  world,  quite 
alone,  to  fight  and  be  fought,  this  inexplicable  daughter 
of  hers.  However  wretched  the  home,  she  would  have 
remained  in  it  rather  than  do  what  Myra  had  done. 

Ina  often  looked  at  Myra  curiously — her  beautiful,  silent 
sister,  whose  life  seemed  to  have  gone  all  wrong.  She 
had  little  more  than  a  child's  recollections  of  Myra. 
Before  her  marriage  Myra  had  been  away  at  school,  and 
since  her  marriage,  save  for  the  summer  when  she  had 
been  ill  in  New  Rome  and  Ina  was  in  Europe,  Myra  had 
been  virtually  separated  from  her  family.  Ina  had  al- 
ways been  considered  the  backward  twin.  She  had  de- 

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THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

veloped  late,  both  mentally  and  physically,  but  the  woman 
had  dawned  in  her  finally,  and  perhaps  the  more  decided- 
ly because  of  long  quiescence.  She  pondered  Myra's  case, 
and  from  quite  a  different  standpoint  than  her  mother's. 

The  heat  in  New  York  had  been  intense,  and  they  had 
gone  at  once  to  the  Adirondacks.  The  little  inn  at  which 
they  were  stopping  backed  up  against  the  mountain  and 
looked  down  on  a  lake,  one  of  a  chain  of  lakes  that  were 
wooded  almost  to  the  water's  edge,  and  when  Myra  was 
not  sitting  with  her  mother  she  was  on  the  lake,  though 
she  did  not  go  far.  She  was  always  within  call,  should 
a  message  come.  That  was  the  nightmare  that  rode  her 
— the  coming  of  the  annihilating  thing. 

"You  are  alone  so  much,  Myra,"  her  mother  com- 
plained. "  When  you  go  on  the  lake  why  don't  you  take 
Ina  or  some  one  from  the  hotel  with  you?" 

"I  have  grown  used  to  being  alone,  mother." 

"I  suppose  it  is  the  trouble  you  have  had  that  makes 
you  want  to  get  away  from  people,"  Mrs.  Milenberg  said, 
sighing. 

It  had  at  last  permeated  Mrs.  Milenberg's  brain  that 
Myra  would  never  return  to  her  husband.  It  was  a  ter- 
rible pity,  her  marriage  and  its  outcome.  Her  heart  ached 
over  her  daughter.  She  had  changed  so  completely,  be- 
come a  silent,  engrossed  woman,  apparently  indifferent 
to  every  one  except  her  mother;  to  her  she  was  tender  as 
she  alwaj'S  had  been.  Yet  when  they  sat  together  they 
talked  very  little.  Each  in  her  way  was  thinking,  and 
dumbly  suffering. 

For  that  long  year  during  which  Mrs.  Milenberg  had 
obeyed  her  husband's  commands  to  leave  Myra  alone  to 
come  to  her  senses,  and  had  yearned  over  her  from  a 
distance,  had  aged  her.  There  had  been  other  things 
also  that  had  been  hard  to  bear :  Eustace's  wrecked  health ; 
the  indications  that  her  husband  was  losing  interest  in 
his  family;  and  not  least  of  all  Irma's  marriage.  It  was 

324 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

so  plainly  a  barter  that  it  had  shocked  Mrs.  Milenberg. 
Just  as  it  had  shocked  Ina.  It  had  aroused  Ina  to  a  self- 
assertion  that  had  added  to  Mrs.  Milenberg's  anxieties, 
for  the  girl  had  declared  she  would  have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  society.  She  had  suddenly  taken  up  settlement 
work,  and  to  Mrs.  Milenberg's  consternation  had  declared 
herself  a  suffragist,  in  defiance  of  everybody  and  every- 
thing, carrying  a  banner  in  Chicago's  mammoth  parade. 
Milenberg  had  grown  scarlet  with  anger  when  he  heard 
of  it.  Then  he  had  laughed.  "Lord!  what  a  family! 
I  think  I'll  pension  you  all  off,  and  begin  again!"  a  speech 
Mrs.  Milenberg  had  remembered.  It  had  been  a  hard 
year,  and,  though  stretched  on  the  rack,  Myra  noticed 
that  her  mother's  gray  hair  had  grown  silvery  and  her 
skin  had  the  blanched  look  of  age. 

To  the  two  Karl  Janniss  one  day  suddenly  presented 
himself .  He  said  he  was  on  a  sketching  tour,  and  meant 
to  stay  for  a  time  at  the  inn.  He  tried  not  to  make  his 
purpose  too  obvious.  Myra  received  him  absently;  for 
weeks  she  had  never  once  thought  of  him.  But  Mrs. 
Milenberg,  as  always,  tried  to  do  her  duty.  She  chatted 
in  her  disjointed  way,  not  rinding  it  difficult,  because  she 
had  always  liked  Janniss. 

He  talked  and  gazed  at  Myra.  She  was  greatly  changed. 
There  were  lines  from  her  nostrils  to  her  chin  that  aged 
her,  something  pinched  and  suffering  in  her  aspect.  In 
the  few  moments  during  which  she  had  looked  fully  at 
him  he  noticed  her  dilated  eyes.  Janniss  puzzled  over 
her,  completely  nonplussed.  He  had  expected  at  least 
some  sign  of  self -consciousness,  and  he  knew  her  well 
enough  to  recognize  that  her  air  of  inattention  was  not 
assumed. 

Janniss  had  wandered  about  Europe  for  six  months. 
In  Paris  he  had  had  the  rare  opportunity  to  paint  Jean 
Corneille.  He  had  lost  himself  for  a  time  in  interest  in 
his  subject,  but,  that  bit  of  work  over,  he  had  dropped 

325 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

back  into  depression.  He  felt  desperately  lonely,  un- 
cared  for,  futile.  It  had  brought  him  back  to  Myra 
finally.  When  he  arrived  in  New  York  and  found  that 
Myra  was  on  her  holiday,  he  had  come  in  hot  haste.  But 
how  combat  an  indifference  so  utter! 

Then  while  they  talked  Ina  came  up  the  steps  of  the 
porch,  a  boyish  vision  in  her  tennis  dress,  bringing  a  letter 
to  Myra.  Myra  took  it  and  sat  quite  still,  holding  it 
between  clasped  hands,  her  face  become  ashen.  It  bore 
a  Russian  postmark,  but  was  not  in  Alyth's  hand.  Then 
she  slipped  away,  and  Janniss  did  not  see  her  that  day, 
nor  the  next,  nor  the  next  after  that. 

"He  lives,"  Mitka  Kerkoff  wrote,  "but  he  is  so  terribly 
ill  that  I  must  tell  the  truth.  We  scarcely  hope.  He  was 
alone  too  long  with  no  one  who  understood  his  language, 
and  none  to  care  for  him.  For  days  he  was  forsaken, 
scarcely  even  water  offered  him.  But  he  is  a  very  strong 
man.  Perhaps  it  will  go  well.  For  your  sake  I  pray.  In 
a  few  days  I  write  again." 

"He  is  a  very  strong  man.  Perhaps  it  will  go  well." 
As  Myra  lay  prone  she  put  the  letter  between  her  breasts, 
a  symbolic  act,  the  instinct  to  warm  a  creature  in  whom 
life  was  running  low.  She  herself  had  no  will  to  move. 
Mitka  Kerkoff' s  letter  had  come  after  a  week  of  waiting 
that,  measured  by  pain,  had  been  a  long  year,  and  abused 
Nature  was  demanding  her  pay.  She  was  still  on  the  rack, 
but  without  strength  to  lift  herself.  After  three  days  of 
prostration  Myra  dragged  herself  out  to  the  porch  and 
down  to  the  lake,  moving  about  again  in  a  world  that 
had  grown  even  more  unreal,  for  every  sense  she  pos- 
sessed was  still  engrossed  in  tense  foreboding. 

Janniss  asked  to  see  her,  and  was  told  by  Ina  that  her 
sister  was  ill.  "We  hope  it  is  not  a  return  of  her  last  sum- 
mer's illness,"  Ina  said,  gravely. 

"She  looks  wretched,"  Janniss  declared,  his  own  dis- 
tress patent  enough  to  eyes  as  clear  as  Ina's. 

326 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

The  whole  complication  was  plain  enough  to  Ina's 
young  wisdom.  Myra  and  Janniss  loved  each  other.  It 
was  not  surprising;  Janniss  appeared  to  her  very  lov- 
able. She  liked  his  clean  fairness  and  open  manner. 
She  liked  the  way  in  which  he  carried  his  head  and  spoke 
his  mind.  She  had  a  great  respect  for  his  talent.  They 
had  spent  much  time  together,  for  during  the  three  days 
when  her  mother  was  sitting  with  Myra,  Janniss  had  been, 
in  a  way,  on  Ina's  hands.  He  wandered  about  so  aimlessly, 
and  looked  so  wretched,  that  she  had  come  to  his  rescue. 
He  had  come  to  see  Myra;  in  a  way  he  was  their  guest. 

"Poor  Myra  has  had  so  much  trouble,"  Ina  returned. 

"Why  doesn't  some  one — your  father — put  an  end  to 
it!"  Janniss  exclaimed,  growing  hot  in  his  misery.  "I 
have  a  tremendous  respect  for  marriage — I  believe  in  the 
old-fashioned  marriage — but  a  misalliance  such  as — " 
He  stopped,  fearing  he  had  said  too  much. 

He  had  touched  Ina's  open  hurt — the  terrible  thing  her 
twin  had  done,  that  had  set  her  to  thinking.  She  turned 
away  that  Janniss  might  not  see  the  spasm  that  crossed 
her  face.  There  had  been  no  one  thing  to  which  Ina, 
in  her  young  life,  had  given  so  much  intent  and  painful 
thought  as  marriage. 

"Have  you  been  on  the  lake  yet?"  she  asked,  con- 
strainedly. "If  you  row  through  the  second  lake  and 
up  the  creek,  there  is  an  inlet  there  that  is  full  of  lilies." 

"Would  you  like  to  go?"  Janniss  asked,  anxious  to 
atone  for  what  must  seem  an  impertinence.  He  had  no 
business  to  comment  on  Myra's  affairs. 

Ina  brightened.  "Yes,  but  it  is  rather  a  stiff  row. 
Still,  if  you  give  out,  I  have  plenty  of  muscle." 

The  implication  aroused  Janniss  somewhat.  "  The  fact 
that  I  paint  doesn't  make  me  a  Mollie-coddle !  I  rowed 
in  my  college  eight." 

"Oh,  did  you?"  said  Ina,  with  the  air  of  one  who  re- 
serves an  opinion. 

327 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

But  when  they  had  crossed  to  the  second  lake,  and  at 
Ina's  suggestion  had  drawn  into  the  shade  for  a  time,  the 
thought  that  was  uppermost  in  her  mind  asserted  itself. 
"You  say  you  believe  in  the  old-fashioned  marriage. 
What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

Janniss  had  been  thinking  that  he  had  never  spent  an 
afternoon  with  a  girl  like  Ina  Milenberg.  He  had  had 
glimpses  of  her  like  occasionally,  and  set  such  girls  down 
as  "extra  sensible,"  not  in  the  least  complex,  not  at  all 
the  type  he  cared  to  paint.  Though  slim  and  brown,  and 
crowned  with  an  abundance  of  dark  hair,  she  was  cer- 
tainly not  beautiful.  She  was  too  unformed,  too  boyish. 
But  he  liked  her  eyes,  particularly  when  he  noticed  how 
straight  and  well-marked  her  brows  were.  They  were 
fine  eyes,  dark  and  intelligent.  In  fact,  though  Ina  sat 
backgrounded  by  a  mossy  bank,  the  greens  of  which  de- 
lighted Janniss,  the  thought  of  painting  her  never  once  oc- 
curred to  him.  He  was  interested  in  her  remarks,  the 
way  in  which  she  said  things.  She  seemed  to  have  done 
a  deal  of  thinking,  for  a  young  girl. 

"Why,  I  mean  as  my  father  and  mother  were:  devoted 
to  each  other  even  when  they  were  old  people,  and  al- 
ways devoted  to  their  children — always  thinking  first  of 
the  family,  of  each  member  of  it  rather  than  themselves. 
.  .  .  What's  decent  in  me  was  put  there  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"But  that  is  the  new-fashioned  marriage — the  newest  of 
all,"  Ina  declared. 

"Not  as  I  have  seen  it!  ...  Bah!  some  of  the  things  I 
have  seen  that  are  called  marriage!" 

"Nevertheless,  the  sort  of  marriage  you  call  out  of  date 
is  the  newest  of  all,"  Ina  insisted.  "I  don't  know  much 
what  men  think  about  it,  but  I  have  talked  a  great  deal 
to  girls  lately,  and  most  of  us  want  and  intend  to  make 
marriage  like  that,  the  one  union  lived  out  together. 
From  the  moment  I  married  I  should  plan  how  to  keep 
my  husband  my  own — how  sensibly  to  do  it — not  ab- 

328 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

jectly,  or  just  by  using  a  legal  advantage.  I  know  any 
number  of  old-fashioned  marriages  that  are  horrors,  and 
mostly  because  of  ignorance.  I  think  the  old-fashioned 
marriage  made  over  will  have  many  more  chances  of  suc- 
cess. It  will  not  be  so  much  a  happen  so,  because  now  we 
are  finding  out  some  of  the  things  that  make  marriage  a 
horror.  Intelligently  honest  intention  always  counts. 
If  we  marry  more  sensibly  and  beautifully,  we  are  certain 
to  divorce  less.  I  don't  intend  to  be  led  away  from  my 
ideal  of  marriage,  or  get  tangled  up  in  wrong  conclusions, 
or  be  side-tracked  in  any  way  at  all."  She  laughed  then 
a  little  as  cover  to  her  very  real  emotion.  "That  is,  I 
mean  to  try  desperately  hard  to  avoid  it." 

Janniss  looked  at  her  with  a  commingling  of  surprise 
and  admiration.  "You  are  right!"  he  said,  decidedly. 
"I  never  heard  any  woman  put  it  like  that  before.  You 
have  done  some  thinking." 

"I  have  had  to  think,"  Ina  replied,  sadly. 

It  was  her  mother  and  father,  Irma  and  Myra,  she  had 
in  mind.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  what  errand  had  brought 
this  frank-faced  young  man  to  them,  and  why  her  sister 
kept  to  her  room,  and  she  sighed  inaudibly.  One  might 
talk  very  decidedly,  but  life  did  appear  an  inextricable 
tangle  sometimes! 

Janniss  guessed  that  her  thoughts  were  not  happy  ones, 
any  more  than  were  his,  and  set  to  rowing  again.  But 
they  had  each  seen  below  the  surface  of  the  other,  reached 
a  certain  comradeship  that  was  comforting,  and  in  the 
days  that  followed  they  were  often  on  the  lake  together, 
side  by  side,  frequently,  each  pulling  an  oar.  After  a 
time  Ina  confided  to  Janniss  her  grief  over  Irma.  Janniss 
had  never  in  his  life  met  a  girl  to  whom  he  cared  so  to 
talk.  As  their  intimacy  progressed  she  had  a  way  of  not 
looking  at  him  that  was  tantalizing;  he  could  not  tell 
except  by  her  fugitive  smile  whether  she  approved  of  what 
he  said  or  not,  and  he  cared  a  deal  for  her  approval. 

0-9 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

Ina  had  her  own  thoughts  and  feelings  that  as  the  days 
passed  made  her  anything  but  happy.  Janniss  stayed 
on  at  the  inn.  He  made  no  apparent  effort  to  see  Myra, 
and,  for  any  sign  Myra  showed,  she  had  forgotten  his 
existence — except  when  he  sat  with  them  on  the  porch, 
and  then  no  human  being  could  have  appeared  more 
completely  devoid  of  interest  than  Myra.  She  saw  noth- 
ing, heard  nothing. 

It  was  Mrs.  Milenberg  who  realized  what  Janniss's 
attitude  to  her  youngest  daughter  meant.  With  an  ache 
in  her  throat  she  was  watching  another  child  being  tempted 
out  into  life,  and  the  child  did  not  come  to  her  for  counsel. 
And  if  she  did,  what  counsel  had  she  to  give  her?  Evident- 
ly she  had  not  counseled  Myra  aright. 

Mrs.  Milenberg's  brow  was  heavily  furrowed  when  she 
brought  her  anxiety  to  Myra.  "Have  you  noticed  how 
devoted  Karl  Janniss  is  to  your  sister?"  she  said.  In  spite 
of  her  eldest  daughter's  terrifyingly  independent  bias, 
Mrs.  Milenberg  felt  that  she  wovild  know  how  to  give 
more  "understand ing"  advice  than.  she. 

Myra's  thoughts  came  back  from  a  long  way  off. 
"Janniss  devoted — to — Ina — ?"  she  asked,  vaguely. 

"They  are  together  all  the  time,  Myra.  Last  night 
from  my  window  I  saw  him  say  good  night  to  her; 
his  face  was  white  and  so  was  hers.  He  kissed  her 
hands  and  wouldn't  let  them  go.  There  is  some- 
thing serious  between  them,'  and  I  don't  know  what 
to  do." 

Myra  put  her  hands  to  her  head.  Jerking  her  thoughts 
away  from  the  thing  that  engrossed  her  every  faculty  gave 
her  actual  physical  suffering.  It  made  her  realize  that 
every  fiber  in  her  was  sore.  .  .  .  Janniss  and  Ina!  .  .  .  But 
why  not?  ...  As  her  brain  cleared  Myra  could  see  exactly 
how  it  had  come  about. 

"He  has  no  money,  has  he,  Myra?"  Mrs.  Milenberg 
asked,  anxiously.  It  was  the  first  question  her  husband 

330 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

would  ask,  the  first  question  every  one  would  ask,  and 
habit  was  strong  in  Mrs.  Milenberg. 

There  was  a  glint  of  passion  in  the  glance  Myra  gave 
her  mother.     "And  what  difference  does  that  make? 
What  has  money  done  for  Irma  and  me?    What  has 
money  made  of  Eustace?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  your  father,"  Mrs.  Milenberg  said, 
in  extenuation. 

"Suppose  we  think  of  Ina  instead,"  Myra  returned, 
less  sharply.  "Mother,  I  am  glad.  Janniss  is  sincere, 
though  he  does  not  always  understand  himself.  But  Ina 
is  so  sane  she  will  steady  him.  He  needs  her,  and  she 
needs  what  is  sweet  and  lovable  in  him.  Mother,  I  am 
glad" 

Mrs.  Milenberg's  chin  quivered.  "But  everything 
seems  to  have  gone  wrong  with  my  children  so  far." 

"Not  everything,  mother  dear,"  Myra  returned,  stead- 
ily. "  Ina  will  be  happy.  I  feel  it." 

Her  own  suffering  made  Myra  the  more  gentle  with  her 
mother.  She  told  her  much  of  Karl  Janniss,  of  his  fine 
traits  and  his  very  real  talent,  and  in  conclusion  she  im- 
plored her:  "Mother,  don't  let  father  mix  in  this!  Let 
Ina  and  Janniss  find  each  other  first,  and  in  their  own  way. 
Don't  let  talk  or  thought  of  money  come  in  to  spoil  things. 
They  are  not  thinking  of  money,  either  of  them.  What 
is  it  that  has  helped  to  spoil  life  for  Irma  and  me?  Making 
a  convenience  of  marriage!"  Myra  was  white-lipped  and 
trembling  when  she  finished. 

With  the  passionate  desire  to  help  her  sister,  Myra 
searched  for  her,  and  found  her  alone  and  apparently 
busied  only  with  her  thoughts.  Myra  had  guessed  why 
Janniss  had  been  pale  the  night  before,  and  why  Ina  sat 
alone  now.  Ina  glanced  at  her  sister  somewhat  doubt- 
fully when  she  sat  down  beside  her.  They  talked  a  little 
of  things  in  general,  but  to  Myra's  pain-sharpened  eyes 
the  girl  looked  miserable.  Myra  asked  very  directly: 
22  33i 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Where  is  Janniss?" 

Ina's  lips  tightened.     "I  don't  know." 

"I  am  afraid  you  sent  him  away,  Ina." 

The  girl  drew  away  from  her  a  little.  "You  have 
noticed,  then." 

"Yes;  mother  noticed  first." 

Ina  looked  down  at  her  restless  hands.  She  had  quite 
as  direct  a  nature  as  Myra's.  "He  told  me  last  night 
that  he  had  been  in  love  with  you,  Myra,  and  that  you 
cared  nothing  for  him.  .  .  .  But  he  says  what  he  feels  for 
me — is  different — that  it's  different  from  anything  he  has 
ever  felt.  .  .  .  Still,  I  don't  know — " 

"I  believe  it  is  different,"  Myra  said,  with  conviction. 
"Don't  you  see,  Janniss  has  always  mistaken  his  artist's 
appreciation  of  beauty  for  love.  With  me — he  always 
saw  me  on  canvas.  To  him  I  was  all  sensuous  lines  and 
curves  and  color.  He  never  thought  of  me  as  his  help- 
mate— the  mother  of  his  children.  But  with  you,  Ina, 
he  has  never  thought  about  painting  you.  He  has  for- 
gotten such  things  as  paint  and  canvas  exist.  It  is  the 
greatest  compliment  he  could  pay  you.  He  is  thinking 
of  a  lifetime  to  be  spent  with  you.  It  is  just  you  yourself, 
the  dear  helpful  woman,  he  wants.  I  think  Janniss  has 
discovered  his  real  need.  If  he  has  he  will  never  rest 
until  he  wins  you.  .  .  .  And,  Ina,  Janniss  does  not  care 
for  money.  He  could  never  do  such  a  thing  as  Justin 
did  to  me.  He  will  take  the  right  view  of  marriage.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

"Yes,  he  tried  to  explain  how  it  was — that  he  was  al- 
ways mad  to  paint  you.  .  .  .  But,  Myra,  it's  his  love  of 
beauty  of  which  I'm  afraid." 

"You  mean  of  his  art?  That  will  always  be  a  big  thing 
to  him,  dear,  bigger  almost  than  love.  You  will  have  to 
realize  that." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  Ina  said,  quickly.  "All  that 
outside  life  a  man  creates  for  himself  is  as  big  a  thing  to 

332 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

him  as  love.  To  some  men  it's  a  bigger  thing  —  as  it 
is  with  father.  .  .  .  What  I  meant  was  that  Janniss 
loves  beauty,  and  I  am  so  plain."  Her  eyes  suddenlv 
filled. 

Myra  put  her  arms  about  her  and  drew  her  close. 
"Are  you  plain,  dear,  with  your  fine  eyes  and  sweet 
mouth  and  your  head  of  lovely  hair?  And  more  than 
anything  else  the  good  brain  it  covers!  Hasn't  he  told 
you  that  he  loves  you  because  you  are  different  from  others 
he  has  known?  Hasn't  he  told  you  that  he  needs  your 
good  sense  to  guide  him?  That  he  knows  you  are  fine 
and  big-hearted — a  woman  like  his  own  mother?  .  .  . 
Certainly  he  has.  He  has  talked  to  you  about  his  mother 
— he  never  did  that  with  me.  .  .  .  You  are  not  grown  yet, 
little  sister.  You  are  as  thin  as  a  boy.  Don't  you  know 
what  love  will  do  to  you?  Fill  out  your  cheeks  and  round 
your  body,  give  you  softness  and  color.  I  am  not  afraid 
for  you.  .  .  .  Only,  Ina,  try  to  be  sure  of  yourself  and  of 
him.  Don't  let  passion  rule  you — that  was  the  mistake 
I  made.  If  he  really  loves  you  he  will  give  you  time  to 
test  each  other  in  as  far  as  is  possible.  The  time  will 
come  when  a  man  and  woman  who  want  to  join  their 
lives  will  be  allowed  the  fullest  opportunity.  Marriage 
was  instituted  for  a  purpose.  Why  should  we  be  compelled 
to  enter  upon  it  without  any  knowledge  of  our  mutual 
suitability  for  the  relation  it  necessitates?  But  why 
drag  out  what  have  been  some  of  my  thoughts?  You 
will  solve  your  problem  as  best  you  can — as  I  shall  have 
to — if  only  I  am  fortunate  enough  to  be  given  my  problem 
to  solve."  She  ended  dully. 

Ina  drew  Myra's  lips  to  her  and  kissed  her.  "Why 
shouldn't  you  tell  me  what  you  think?  We  girls  want 
to  know  what  you  women  who  have  experienced  think. 
And  I  understand  perfectly  why  you  think  and  feel  as 
you  do.  What  you  have  gone  through  must  make  a 
woman  impatient  of  things  as  they  are.  But  with  it  all 

333 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

you  are  sweet,  Myra — sincere  and  sweet — and  I  wish 
you  were  happier." 

Myra  had  no  answer  and  no  tears.  She  was  back  again 
with  Dread.  Even  with  her  sister's  arms  about  her  she 
was  waiting,  listening.  She  was  still  waiting  when,  several 
days  later,  her  father  suddenly  appeared.  Milenberg  had 
only  casual  attention  for  his  wife  and  Ina;  he  had  very 
evidently  come  to  see  Myra. 

He  skirmished  for  a  time  without  drawing  anything 
from  her.  Then  he  came  to  the  point  abruptly.  "Myra, 
what  do  you  know  of  Justin's  money  affairs?"  he  de- 
manded. 

Her  father  and  his  schemes  were  infinitesimal  things  to 
Myra.  "Justin  never  confided  his  affairs  to  me,"  she  re- 
turned. 

Myra  was  thinking  dully  that  if  it  had  come  to  a  struggle 
between  the  two  men  she  meant  to  have  no  part  in  it. 
She  would  give  her  father  no  weapon  with  which  to  cut 
St.  Claire's  throat.  She  had  no  animosity,  only  a  mental 
and  physical  recoil  from  the  abysmal  inadequacy  that  had 
been  her  husband. 

Milenberg  regarded  her  steadily.  "Justin  has  come 
out  pretty  flat-footed  with  a  proposition — astonishingly 
so  for  Justin,"  he  said.  "It's  your  freedom  for  a  sum 
of  money — a  big  sum — that's  what  it  amounts  to.  ... 
Cool,  isn't  it?" 

Myra's  slow-drawn  breath  was  a  sigh,  her  gesture  the 
involuntary  one  of  wiping  from  her  face  something  that 
made  her  shrink.  Was  not  the  torture  she  was  enduring 
enough?  Must  she  be  sickened  as  well?  She  remained 
silent. 

"But  he'll  not  get  it!"  Milenberg  said,  with  a  sudden 
quiet  vehemence  that  was  cutting.  "He's  gotten  all  out 
of  his  marriage  he  is  going  to  get.  It's  not  safe  for  a 
man  to  show  me  his  hand  so  plainly.  Something  must  be 
pushing  Mr.  St.  Claire  pretty  hard!"  In  Milenberg's 

334 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

sneer  there  was  the  deep  contempt  of  the  openly  un- 
scrupulous man  for  the  hypocrite. 

There  was  a  silence  during  which  Myra  continued  to 
look  at  her  hands. 

"Well?"  her  father  demanded,  finally. 

"I  have  told  you — I  was  never  Justin's  confidante." 

He  considered  her  for  a  time  with  a  look  that  was  not 
all  annoyance.  It  was  white  of  the  girl  to  hold  her 
tongue.  With  all  her  impractical  nonsense,  she  was  a 
pretty  decent  sort,  and  according  to  Milenberg's  estimate 
of  woman  the  quality  was  somewhat  rare.  He  had  not 
gained  anything  by  coming  to  her.  Still,  it  didn't  make 
any  great  difference.  .  .  .  "The  damned  cheek  of  the  man," 
to  attempt  to  hold  him,  James  Milenberg,  up! 

When  her  father  was  gone  Myra  went  out  into  the  air. 
If  he  had  stayed  a  moment  longer  she  felt  she  would 
smother.  What  comparison  was  there  between  such  a 
barter  as  they  had  made  of  her  and  the  sincerity  Alyth 
offered  her?  ...  If  only  he  might  be  spared  to  her. 

Myra  went  down  to  the  lake.  She  did  not  go  far.  She 
rowed  into  the  shadow  of  an  overhanging  tree,  an  im- 
mense beech  that  was  giving  up  its  life  slowly.  The  lake 
had  sucked  at  the  earth  about  its  roots  until  they  were 
naked,  each  successive  wind-storm  bending  it  a  little, 
and  a  little  more;  when  the  autumn  storms  came  the 
lake  would  claim  it.  "He  is  a  very  strong  man.  Perhaps 
it  will  go  well."  Myra  looked  at  the  dying  tree  and 
wished  that  she  could  pray. 

When  she  was  very  little  she  had  prayed.  She  remem- 
bered how  she  and  Eustace  had  knelt  beside  her  mother, 
and  her  perfect  certainty  that  whatever  they  asked  for 
would  be  granted.  She  remembered  what  they  had 
been  taught.  It  was  a  custom  that  had  lapsed  before 
the  blazoning  of  her  father's  methods  which  had  been 
the  opening  of  Myra's  eyes  to  an  ugly  page  of  life.  She 
remembered  thinking  that  the  things  she  had  been  taught 

335 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

appeared  quite  inadequate  to  cope  with  such  conditions 
as  existed.  The  practical  in  her  had  set  them  aside  as 
beautiful  but  useless.  At  Woodmansie  Place,  when  she 
was  casting  hither  and  thither  for  guidance,  she  read  the 
Scriptures  through  with  a  passionate  interest  in  the  r61e 
Christianity  had  assigned  to  women,  and  as  passionate 
a  rejection.  Her  passive  mother  was  the  outgrowth  of 
such  teaching.  The  new  idea,  an  adaptation  of  a  con- 
ception centuries  old,  the  conception  of  development 
through  the  force  of  desire,  a  self-propelling  toward  per- 
fection, from  stage  to  stage,  through  incarnation  after 
incarnation — in  the  blow  it  dealt  to  passivity,  the  yield- 
ing up  of  oneself  to  blind  faith — had  appealed  to  Myra. 
But  now,  with  a  suffering  child's  longing  for  the  comfort 
blind  faith  has  been  to  the  many,  Myra  longed  for  the 
personal  appeal  to  Omnipotence;  wished  that  she  could 
believe  in  it. 

She  was  looking  down,  not  up,  into  the  water  greened 
by  soft  filaments  of  water-moss,  stirred  by  water-life,  the 
myriad  little  creatures,  devouring  mouths  ever  fighting 
one  another  for  existence,  the  right  of  might,  the  inexorable 
law — life  exemplified.  .  .  .  She  looked  up  with  a  convulsive 
start  when  a  call  from  the  water's  edge  reached  her. 

The  end  had  come. 

In  a  world  that  suddenly  glared  white  Myra  took  the 
envelope  marked  "Atlantic  Cable,"  and  with  the  same 
instinct  that  urges  an  animal  to  find  a  sheltered  corner 
in  which  to  die  she  crept  up  to  her  room  laboriously, 
with  feet  so  weighted  that  they  dragged. 

She  reached  her  bed  and  sat  looking  down  the  gray 
vista  of  years.  In  that  space  of  staring  silence  she  knew 
completely  why  those  who  faced  a  blankness  as  utter  as 
hers  ended  life.  .  .  .  She  took  out  the  folded  slip  finally, 
and,  still  lighted  by  the  white  glare,  read  its  single  line: 
"He  will  live." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IN  the  weeks  of  convalescence  and  the  testing  of  his 
regained  strength  letter  after  letter  passed  between 
them.  Assurance  after  assurance  from  Myra  of  a  love 
that  would  gladly  wait  a  lifetime  for  its  consummation, 
and  from  Alyth  the  passionate  appreciation  of  her  love 
and  the  expression  of  his  willingness  to  leave  the  shaping 
of  their  future  in  her  hands. 

And  when  finally  they  came  into  each  other's  arms,  it 
was  as  lovers  at  the  plighting  of  their  troth.  They  stood 
clasped,  the  intimate  touch  one  of  the  other  an  expression 
of  the  unutterable  joy  and  gratitude  of  reunion  accom- 
plished, a  putting  behind  them  of  the  terrors  of  the  past. 

They  whispered  it  against  each  other's  lips: 

"I  thought — I  had  lost  you — for  ever — " 

"And— I—" 

Myra's  arms  dropped  finally,  but  Alyth  still  kept  her 
held,  and  suddenly  her  nearness  was  too  much  for  him. 
He  lifted  her  and  kissed  her  again  and  again,  her  lips  and 
her  throat,  long  and  passionately,  then  wildly,  forgetful 
of  everything  but  pent  desire,  the  accumulation  of  hunger 
and  thirst.  He  murmured  to  her  of  it,  and  when  she  lay 
helpless  against  his  strength,  with  face  crushed  to  his 
breast,  he  spoke  in  her  ear  against  her  hair: 

"I  have  wanted  you  so  long.  ...  I  want  you  mine — " 

And  Myra  was  scarlet  and  quivering  with  realization, 
both  of  his  abandon  and  her  immediate,  uncontrollable 
answer  to  it,  too  startled  by  the  crisis  that  was  upon  them 
to  be  swept  completely  along  with  him.  The  sweetness 

337 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

of  their  first  embrace,  the  commingling  of  love  and  grati- 
tude, still  held  her  too  strongly. 

"My  love  is — yours — it  is  all — yours,"  she  reiterated, 
breathlessly.  "I  wrote  you — I  am  promised  to  you  .  .  . 
but  not  in  this  way — " 

He  knelt  at  last,  his  arms  about  her,  his  face  pressed 
against  her,  slowly  breathing  his  way  back  to  sanity. 
She  stood  quite  still,  looking  down  at  him,  but  when  he 
whispered,  "Forgive  me,"  her  hands  touched  his  hair 
and  he  caught  them,  holding  them  to  his  hot  face. 

When  at  last  he  stood  up  he  steadied  himself  by  them. 
He  had  grown  quite  white.  "I  forgot,"  he  said,  thickly. 
"I  forgot — completely — "  He  drew  a  long  breath,  try- 
ing to  shake  himself  free  of  passion,  an  actual  shaking 
of  his  shoulders. 

The  crimson  had  ebbed  even  from  Myra's  lips.  She 
had  conceived  of  a  love  that  was  both  a  great  love  and  a 
great  friendship,  a  thing  that  was  sufficiently  powerful 
to  rule  passion,  not  be  ruled  by  it.  But  at  the  first 
touch  of  each  other  to  be  swept  out  to  sea  like  this !  The 
future  suddenly  appeared  indeterminate,  difficult,  with 
responsibility  always  sitting  on  her  door-step.  .  .  .  And 
yet,  with  the  contrariety  characteristic  of  a  love  in  which 
the  element  of  passion  has  definitely  entered,  she  felt 
more  closely  bound  to  the  man  who  compelled  her  to 
anxiety,  to  caught  breath,  and  a  guard  upon  herself  and 
upon  him. 

But  the  future?  .  .  .  The  responsibility,  the  decision 
lay  with  her. 

They  stood  hand  in  hand,  hesitant,  Myra  with  lowered 
eyes,  and  Alyth  studying  her  grave  face.  A  lifetime 
given  to  waiting  for  a  problematic  union!  With  the  ocean 
separating  them  it  had  not  been  so  difficult  to  acquiesce : 
to  write  that  she  should  shape  their  future  as  she  would, 
that  he  was  content  with  the  knowledge  that  she  loved 
him.  At  the  very  moment  of  writing  he  had  known  how 

338 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

impossible  it  would  be.     It  had  been  simply  a  man's  usual 
expression  of  a  submission  he  does  not  really  feel. 

Night  after  night  he  had  in  his  dreams  held  her  in  his 
arms,  and  his  loss  of  self-control  that  had  followed  so 
immediately  upon  something  far  sweeter  had  been  the 
result  of  his  intimate  thoughts  of  her.  Alyth  knew  even 
better  than  Myra  how  completely  she  loved  him.  His 
happiness-destroying  faculty  of  looking  forward  told  him 
that  with  temptation  ever  at  hand  they  were  almost 
certain  to  enter  upon  the  course  that  experience  had 
taught  him  was  unbeautiful,  even  when  real  love  was  ex- 
pended upon  it.  An  illicit  relation,  however  compelling 
it  might  be,  was  an  illicit  relation,  and  capable  of  little 
idealization. 

"It  is  not  easy  to  go  back  on  one's  rearing,"  Alyth  had 
told  Myra  in  New  Rome  when  she  had  reproached  him, 
and  he  was  true  to  his  rearing  now.  Whatever  the  wom- 
an he  desired  gave  him  he  would  take;  he  had  thrown  the 
responsibility  to  her.  Nevertheless,  the  friend  in  him 
that  had  always  wished  her  well  was  infinitely  sorry  that 
things  were  as  they  were.  He  came  near  to  warning  her 
against  himself  and  herself,  his  respect  for  the  lawfully 
ordered,  and  her  tendency  to  an  idealized  freedom  of 
thought  and  action. 

As  he  looked  down  on  her  he  knew  so  well  what  she 
was  thinking:  "I  know  he  has  it  in  him  to  rise  to  some- 
thing higher  than  mere  physical  demand.  Am  I  going 
to  love  him  less  because  of  a  moment's  weakness?"  How 
sweet  she  was;  how  completely  a  woman;  how  worthy 
of  the  best  life  had  to  give!  ...  He  watched  the  lift  of  her 
lashes  until  their  eyes  met,  and  he  saw  then  how  at  the 
sight  of  his  drawn  face  her  eyes  filled  with  tenderness. 

She  took  her  hands  from  his  and  touched  his  cheeks 
and  his  brow  with  caressing  fingers.  "The  lines  are  all 
there  still,"  she  said.  "They  have  always  meant  to  me 
the  triumph  of  will.  .  .  .  We  are  bewildered  by  the  fact 

339 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

that  we  are  actually  together.  .  .  .  Thankfulness  should 
be  the  biggest  thing  in  us  to-day — that  you  are  alive,  and 
that  we  have  each  other's  love." 

"I  know  that,"  Alyth  answered,  a  little  indistinctly. 
"No  one  knows  it  better  than  I.  ...  It  is  seeing  you — 
feeling  you — that  is  too  much  for  me — " 

"Yes,  I  know."  And  then  she  said  with  a  certain 
determined  honesty  that  brought  the  blood  into  her  face, 
"It  was  the  same  with  me,  only  it — we — we  would  have 
been  unjust  to  ourselves."  She  turned  away  a  little 
hastily.  "Come  in  where  I  always  sat  when  I  wrote  to 
you.  I  cannot  realize  that  you  have  never  seen  my 
house.  It  has  been  so  filled  with  thoughts  of  you  that 
you  seem  a  part  of  it." 

They  went  into  the  bay-window  where  Myra  had  kept 
her  night  vigil.  The  window-seat  was  bright  with  sun- 
shine now,  the  slanting  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun.  The 
leaves  on  the  trees  beneath  were  brown,  seared  by  the 
smoke  of  the  city;  but  across  the  river  where  nature 
struggled  against  fewer  odds,  the  yellows  and  russets  were 
better  defined.  A  fog,  premonitory  of  evening  chill,  was 
creeping  up  the  river;  the  sun  would  go  down  hazed  with 
mist. 

"Your  marconigram  saved  me-  a  morning  of  uncer- 
tainty. Did  you  send  one  to  Dick?"  Myra  asked,  pur- 
posely presenting  another  interest.  The  deepened  fold 
between  Alyth's  eyes,  his  smileless  look,  troubled  her. 

"You  received  it,  then.  ...  I  sent  a  message  to  Dick — 
and  to  Jack  also.  Jack  will  probably  sell  or  trade  the 
curiosity  to  some  boy;  but  that  little  son  of  mine  will 
have  his  treasured  in  a  breast  pocket,  together  with  a 
thousand  questions.  Before  sleep  has  him  to-night  he 
will  possess  the  history  of  the  wireless." 

As  he  talked  Alyth  gradually  regained  his  usual  aspect, 
and  a  smile  began  to  touch  Myra's  lips,  the  deep  content 
in  his  presence;  he  had  become  again  the  stable,  self- 

340 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

contained  man  she  knew.  He  had  the  air  of  a  man  com- 
pletely awakened  to  daily  concerns;  his  usual  air  of  faintly 
humorous  appreciation. 

"You  remember  I  wrote  you — the  little  chap  sent  me 
letters  while  I  was  ill.  He  took  a  deep  interest  in  my 
welfare.  Once  he  asked:  ' Is  it  your  head  or  your  stom- 
ach that  hurts,  fathur,  or  do  both  hurt  together?  They 
hurt  together  when  I  had  fevur.  I  wish  you  didn't 
hurt.'"  His  voice  deepened.  "I'm  glad  to  be  back 
with  my  boy,  and  with  you.  I  shall  try  to  take  with  a 
little  of  your  idealistic  completeness  whatever  joy  comes 
to  us  ...  I  wish  it  were  not  so  difficult  to  rise  above  one- 
self." He  turned  abruptly  to  something  else.  "You 
know — I  have  thought  as  persistently  as  the  revolving 
steamer's  propeller  of  the  time  when  my  eyes  would  first 
light  on  you.  .  .  .  You  are  more  beautiful  even  than  when 
I  left  you,  Myra." 

"And  illness  has  changed  you  very  little.  Your  glance 
is  as  vividly  blue  as  ever — just  as  keen  and  alive." 

"Let  me  see  your  hands.     I  have  always  loved  them." 

He  took  them  and  kissed  them,  watching  the  color  come 
in  her  cheeks.  He  was  thinking  that  if  ever  a  woman 
deserved  her  little  space  of  courtship  she  did,  and  he  was 
glad  that  in  spite  of  the  craving,  unsatisfied  animal  in 
him,  he  had  tenderness  and  appreciation  to  give  her.  It 
made  it  more  possible  for  him  to  forgive  himself.  He  held 
her  hands  and  caressed  them. 

"What  have  they  been  doing  these  last  weeks?" 

"Working  hard — or  rather  my  brain  has.  I  am  earn- 
ing a  salary  again.  I  see  a  partnership  in  view;  I  am 
happy  over  it." 

"You  are  a  big  woman,"  he  said.  "You  will  reach 
greater  dimensions  if  unhampered  by  me;  I  have  always 
known  that." 

"Hush — you  hurt  me!  .  .  .  The  capacity  to  love  is  the 
biggest  thing  in  me,  and  you  have  called  out  my  love. 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Mere  accomplishment  without  love  to  sweeten  it  means 
little  to  me.  So  if  I  ever  reach  big  dimensions  it  will  be 
through  you." 

They  talked  until  the  sun  reached  the  horizon,  an  ex- 
change of  personal  details,  disjointed  talk,  lovers'  talk. 
In  her  letters  Myra  had  told  of  Ina  and  Janniss.  She 
spoke  of  them  now  with  deep  satisfaction.  Janniss  had 
gone  to  New  Rome  with  Ina  and  her  mother. 

"They  are  really  discovering  each  other;  they  will  not 
make  the  mistake  I  made." 

Alyth  moved  restlessly.  "Some  of  us  seem  destined 
for  mistakes."  And  he  added  with  sudden  bitterness, 
"Ina  and  Janniss  have  better  fortune  than  was  dealt  out 
to  us." 

"Do  we  love  each  other  the  less  because  of  our  mis- 
fortunes?" 

Alyth  only  looked  at  her.  She  was  a  visionary,  but 
how  utterly  lovable ! 

The  sun,  blanketed  in  golden  mist,  had  dropped  be- 
hind the  hills  opposite,  and  suddenly  they  were  in  shadow, 
the  oncoming  of  an  October  evening  chilled  and  dimmed 
by  fog. 

"You  must  go,"  Myra  said,  then.  "We  are  forgetting 
Dick." 

"No.  I  shall  have  him  till  bedtime,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing; but  you  I  have  for  only  a  short  hour  or  two. . . .  Still, 
I  must  go — " 

Myra  rose  to  give  him  decision,  and  he  stood  looking 
at  her  as  he  had  when  he  had  lifted  her  up  and  held  her, 
for  the  actuality  of  separation  was  taking  possession  of 
him,  the  thought  of  the  night  to  be  lived  through  with 
his  arms  empty.  He  put  heavy  hands  on  her  shoulders, 
a  more  iron  grip  than  he  realized.  The  man  who  had 
kissed  her  hands  had  fled. 

"Myra,"  he  said,  tersely,  "you  know  what  is  before 
us.  ...  I  shall  do  my  best,  but  I  can't  play  with  love 

342 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

long — not  with  you.  I  dare  not  kiss  you  now.  .  .  .  It's 
for  you  to  decide." 

They  looked  long  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  Myra 
slowly  whitened.  "I  must  have  time— to  think  it  out," 
she  said,  steadily. 

He  drew  her  toward  him,  then  set  her  aside,  and  with 
an  inarticulate  word  about  the  morrow  was  gone. 

In  the  days  that  followed  the  question  pressed  more 
and  more  persistently  upon  Myra:  how,  with  always  the 
desire  of  their  more  complete  unity  urging  her,  was  she 
to  meet  this  demand  that  in  spite  of  Alyth's  tenderness,  of 
his  frequent  self -depreciation,  so  suddenly  leaped  up  and 
called  upon  her?  .  .  .  And  to  which  she  answered.  She 
did.  answer,  and  he  knew  it.  ...  And  not  only  the  sudden 
demand,  but  the  continuous  craving  that  as  the  days 
passed  edged  every  word  and  act  of  his,  and  that  she  felt 
was  more  and  more  dominating  her?  How  meet  it  so 
as  best  to  conserve  their  happiness?  .  .  .  The  sudden  self- 
restraints,  the  as  sudden  lapses  of  control,  the  half-in- 
timacy to  which  they  were  of  necessity  subjected,  and 
the  growing  irritation  against  a  hopeless  future,  were  wear- 
ing upon  Alyth,  how  terribly  Myra  could  only  guess  by 
the  continued  strain  upon  herself.  The  effect  upon  them 
was  telling.  Because  of  the  self-restraint  that  fear  of 
themselves  laid  upon  them,  they  were  lacking  in  frank- 
ness, and  the  realization  was  a  misery  to  Myra,  for  it  was 
her  conviction  that  without  mutual  sincerity  a  profound 
love  is  an  impossibility. 

But  with  always  the  earnest  wish  that  her  own  de- 
sire for  the  man  who  desired  her  should  not  blind  her; 
that  she  should  not  be  yielding  to  specious  arguments; 
that  she  should  not  be  ruled  by  passion  as  she  had  been 
with  St.  Claire — Myra  succeeded  in  withholding  herself. 
Nevertheless,  she  was  accustoming  herself  to  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  marriage  of  their  own  making.  She  had  come 

343 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

gradually  nearer  to  the  relation  that  might  be  theirs  and 
was  studying  it.  She  considered  that  she  had  demon- 
strated the  inadequacy  of  marriage  as  a  promoter  or  con- 
server  of  happiness — unless  unified  by  like  intention  and 
oneness  of  being — a  spiritual  and  physical  oneness.  She 
had  watched  the  same  demonstration  on  the  part  of  others. 
She  had  long  ago  decided  that  the  mere  binding  together 
of  the  extraneous  interests  of  two  people  might  serve  an 
economic  conservation,  but  little  else;  and  at  the  price 
not  only  of  personal  starvation,  but  of  race  deterioration. 
The  marriage  based  on  perfect  unity  had  always  been 
Myra's  ideal,  conceived  in  her  childhood  and  fostered 
by  more  mature  experience  until  it  had  become  a  religion 
with  her.  That  children  should  be  born  only  of  mutual 
love,  respect,  and  intention  was  her  creed. 

And  now,  under  the  pressure  of  unalterable  circum- 
stance, Myra  questioned  whether  the  relation  possible 
to  Alyth  and  herself  would  not  in  reality  be  a  mar- 
riage? A  union  entered  into  with  like  intention,  the 
completest  test  of  character  possible  to  man  and  woman, 
the  foundation-laying  of  the  most  genuine  and  lasting 
happiness,  that  in  time  might  be  granted  the  highest 
consummatiQn,  a  legal  bond  intelligently  assumed,  and 
for  the  sake  of  children,  for  the  purpose  of  unifying  a 
family. 

Such  a  conception  was  not  new  to  Myra;  sjie  had  read 
and  pondered  its  various  presentations,  but  as  actually 
applied  to  herself  it  was  profoundly  new,  and  at  first 
startling,  though  when  she  considered  the  successive  steps 
that  had  led  to  such  a  possibility  she  realized  that  she  had 
acquired  the  germ  far  back  in  her  childhood,  when  with 
pained  understanding  she  had  observed  marriage  as 
practised  by  her  father  and  mother,  and  by  others.  In 
her  doubts  over  St.  Claire  she  had  questioned  her  mother: 
"Until  I  eat  his  bread  and  sleep  in  his  arms  will  I  ever 
really  know  whether  we  two  can  be  one?"  And  her  own 

344 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

painful  experience  had  developed  the  germ.  She  had 
come  early  to  regard  a  bondage  to  disunion  as  an  im- 
morality. 

Then  with  a  reversion  to  the  more  usual  viewpoint, 
Myra  questioned  her  right  to  judge  and  decide,  to  take 
upon  herself  the  responsibility  of  free  agency.  Would 
she  not  be  too  arrogantly  emphasizing  her  right  to  in- 
dividuality? Why  through  the  centuries  had  individual- 
ity been  curtailed?  Been  hemmed  in  and  dominated  by 
law,  if  not  for  the  conservation  of  some  deep  moral  pur- 
pose? She  had  come  face  to  face  again  with  the  doubts 
that  had  torn  her  when  she  had  longed  to  leave  St. 
Claire.  She  had  allowed  her  doubts  to  plunge  her 
into  a  purely  emotional  act,  the  return  to  her  husband. 
Was  she  doing  the  wisest  thing  now  in  taking  counsel 
of  her  doubts? 

Nevertheless,  it  was  doubt  quite  as  much  as  Alyth's 
avoidance  of  discussion  that  kept  Myra  silent,  withdrawn. 
She  guessed  that  Alyth  avoided  the  subject  because  he 
doubted  his  power  of  restraint.  She  also  surmised  that 
he  shrank  from  any  attempt  to  persuade  her,  and  that 
his  lapses  of  self-control  were  followed  by  a  bitter  im- 
patience at  his  lack  of  will.  Myra  granted  unhappily 
that  there  was  not  perfect  harmony  between  them,  and 
that  was  the  thing  above  all  others  that  she  desired.  Was 
she  being  retaught  the  thing  she  had  always  believed — 
that  perfect  love  between  man  and  woman  is  compounded 
of  physical  as  well  as  mental  joy? 

Myra  guessed  only  a  fraction  of  Alyth's  thoughts.  It 
was  true  that  he  avoided  discussion  of  the  subject  that 
engrossed  them  both;  but  because  his  reason  could  not 
sanction  the  radical  decision  he  knew  she  was  approach- 
ing. If  an  appeal  was  made  to  his  reason  he  would  be 
forced  to  negative  her  conclusions.  As  ideals  he  would 
have  to  grant  them  a  certain  justice  and  beauty;  he  could 
truthfully  say  that  in  the  future  there  must  be  some  ad- 

345 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

justment  between  a  too  self-assertive  individualism  and 
the  inconsistencies  and-  inadequacies  of  the  laws  and 
customs  governing  the  most  vital  of  human  relations; 
and  that  possibly  the  reformation  was  in  process  of  evo- 
lution. But  the  time  was  certainly  not  yet. 

For  Alyth  knew  his  world  exceedingly  well.  He  looked 
upon  it  without  illusions.  He  had  the  experienced  man's 
practical  knowledge  of  it.  He  knew  well  the  punishment  it 
meted  out  to  the  woman,  and  to  a  lesser  degree  to  the 
man,  who  attempted  openly  to  disregard  its  time-honored 
rules.  His  cynicism  had  often  smiled  at  its  careless  con- 
doning of  hypocrisy  and  inconsistency;  its  complacent 
compromise  with  sin  provided  it  was  sufficiently  covered 
to  partially  hide  its  nakedness;  its  virulent  condemnation 
of  every  manifestation  of  human  nature  that  went  naked; 
its  shrinking  from  unvarnished  truth.  A  secret  relation 
was  the  only  one  possible  to  them,  and  Myra  was  pre- 
paring to  enter  upon  it  without  any  adequate  realization 
of  the  sordid  details;  of  the  concealments,  the  prevarica- 
tions, the  cautions  that  would  be  required  of  her. 

Like  most  men  who  are  either  ethically  at  sea  or  too 
powerfully  tempted,  Alyth  begged  the  question  of  right 
or  wrong.  From  what  standpoint  was  he  to  judge  of 
their  coming  together?  From  the  standpoint  of  the  New 
Morality — the  expansion  of  individuality — or  from  the 
Old  Morality?  And  yet  when  at  the  point  of  death  he 
had  answered  the  question  much  as  his  Scotch  Presby- 
terian father  would  have  answered  it. 

Either  as  an  ancestral  legacy,  or  as  a  development 
peculiarly  his  own,  Alyth  possessed  nerves  highly  attuned. 
He  was  keenly  sensitive,  bitterly  disdainful  of  the  sordid, 
capable  of  acute  feeling,  and  withal  possessed  of  a  will 
that  was  something  more  than  mere  surface  restraint. 
With  the  deeply  emotional  man's  capacity  for  suffering 
Alyth  was  suffering.  He  was  in  both  mental  and  physi- 
cal torment.  He  was  vitally,  passionately  desirous  of  the 

346 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

one  woman,  the  mate  of  his  selection.  She  appealed  to 
his  imagination  and  his  sympathies  as  well  as  his  passions. 
He  wanted  her  so  utterly  that  with  eyes  fully  open  to 
what  was  before  them  he  meant  to  have  her. 

His  was  the  masculine  hunger  that  from  the  beginning 
of  time  has  dominated  reason. 

23 


THE  first  day  of  December  wore  the  aspect  of  April, 
smiling  and  then  weeping,  with  a  breath  as  mild 
as  Maytime,  until  a  little  after  midday,  when  with  true 
American  abruptness  it  was  blown  upon  and  frozen  stiff 
by  a  gale,  plunged  into  a  swirl  of  snow,  incrusted  with 
ice,  buffeted  and  beaten  by  a  blizzard  that  came  direct 
from  the  throat  of  the  north. 

From  the  windows  of  his  office  Alyth  watched  the  storm 
grow.  When  midway  in  an  April  smile  a  whisper  had 
crept  along  the  window-frame,  growing  into  a  soft,  whir- 
ring whistle,  Alyth  had  looked  up  from  his  desk  under- 
standingly.  He  knew  nature's  signals  well;  he  needed 
no  thermometer  to  tell  him  that  the  temperature  had 
dropped  many  degrees  in  a  few  minutes.  Then  the  snow 
came,  blown  out  of  the  northwest,  not  a  blinding  storm 
at  first,  only  scattered  particles,  but  ice-pointed.  It  was 
not  until  the  sky  became  leaden  and  lowered  into  the 
semblance  of  night  that  the  steady  drive  of  snow  began. 

Alyth  was  doing  nothing ;  he  had  done  nothing  all  day. 
He  was  simply  waiting,  and  too  tensely  for  thought.  It 
was  a  supreme  relief  not  to  think.  He  felt  a  certain  riot- 
ous satisfaction  in  the  storm;  emotion  was  having  its 
way  with  him,  and  it  was  in  keeping  for  nature  to  go  on 
a  rampage. 

Alyth  watched  the  office  lights,  thousands  of  them, 
spring  into  life,  dotting  the  shadowy  outlines  of  the  tower- 
ing buildings,  marking  the  height  of  lower  structures.  It 
was  only  mid-afternoon  and  already  night.  The  storm 

348 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

made  him  the  more  restless.  He  decided  that  instead  of 
waiting  at  the  office  he  would  go  to  his  club,  and  from 
there  to  Myra.  He  could  see  with  his  mind's  eye  the 
swirl  of  snow  with  the  river  lights  dancing  through  it  that 
they  would  (.watch  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  shut  out 
of  sight — the  blinds  drawn  against  the  outer  world,  a 
night  then  that  would  be  the  more  completely  their  own 
because  of  the  tempest  encompassing  them. 

For  without  any  spoken  word  to  give  him  certainty 
Alyth  knew  that  Myra  had  decided.  That  that  night, 
for  better  or  for  worse,  they  would  take  each  other. 

To  avoid  the  crowd  that  would  almost  immediately  con- 
gest the  subway,  Alyth  left  the  office  as  soon  as  his  club 
occurred  to  him,  but  not  until  he  reached  the  sidewalk 
did  he  realize  how  appallingly  cold  it  was.  The  gale  was 
terrific,  and  rapidly  piling  the  snow  into  drifts;  long  be- 
fore morning  the  surface  cars  would  be  at  a  standstill. 

From  the  club  window  he  watched  the  Fifth  Avenue 
traffic  dwindle  into  nothing.  He  hoped  anxiously  that 
Myra  had  left  her  office  early,  as  he  had,  and  that  she  was 
warmly  clad;  it  was  going  to  be  a  deadly  night.  He  grew 
so  anxious  finally  that  he  called  Myra  up  at  her  office,  a 
thing  he  rarely  allowed  himself  to  do.  The  office  gave 
him  no  answer.  They  had  evidently  all  left  early.  Then 
Alyth  called  up  her  apartment,  and  from  the  maid  learned 
that  Myra  had  not  come  home  yet.  Somewhere  to  the 
west  of  him  she  must  be  making  her  way  as  best  she  could 
through  the  storm.  He  wished  that  he  had  forgotten 
the  caution  that  had  already  begun  to  guard  their  secret, 
and  had  called  for  her  at  her  office.  If  he  had  had  his 
usual  wits  about  him  it  would  have  occurred  to  him  to 
do  it,  but  since  the  night  before,  when,  in  parting,  Myra 
had  of  her  own  accord  kissed  him,  softly  and  a  little 
solemnly,  he  had  known  what  her  barely  whispered,  "Will 
you  come  early  to-morrow?"  had  meant.  He  had  been 
too  overwhelmed  by  realization  to  be  anything  but  silent. 

349 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  had  found  himself  outside  her  door  before  his  brain 
had  cleared  of  the  rush  of  blood  that  had  blinded  him. 
She  had  not  needed  words;  his  kiss  had  told  her  every- 
thing; a  letter  or  a  message  would  have  been  a  banality. 
.  .  .  But  it  would  have  been  exquisite  to  have  carried  her 
home  through  the  storm;  the  first  act  of  possession. 

While  Alyth  waited  restlessly  until  time  to  call  a  cab 
it  occurred  to  him  that  Dick  might  be  frightened  by  the 
storm.  He  was  always  considerate  of  the  delicate,  ner- 
vous child,  and  more  than  once  before  when  he  stayed 
the  night  in  the  city  he  had  insisted  that  Dick  be  brought 
to  the  telephone  that  he  might  be  reassured  by  hearing 
his  father's  voice.  The  boy's  imagination  had  always 
played  about  the  mystery  of  the  telephone,  the  delight 
of  talking  over  it  largely  compensating  for  his  father's 
absence.  And  on  this  eve  of  a  great  joy  Alyth  had  a  sud- 
den wish  to  hear  his  boy's  voice. 

It  was  Caroline  who  answered.  Her  voice  was  sharp 
and  strained  with  some  emotion  which  Alyth  at  first 
thought  was  anger. 

"Oh,  George — where  have  you  been?"  she  said.  "We 
have  been  trying  to  get  you  at  the  office  for  the  last 
hour.  .  .  .  No,  Dick  can't  come — " 

Alyth  knew  now  why  her  voice  was  so  attenuated. 
She  was  frightened,  and  he  guessed  instantly.  "What  is 
wrong  with  Dick?"  he  demanded. 

"He's  had  a  fearful  chill — we  couldn't  get  him  warm 
— and  now  the  pain  in  his  side.  He's  been  calling  for 
you—" 

The  voice  may  convey  more  than  words — Alyth  was 
swept  by  a  wave  of  dread.  "What  is  it?" 

"The  doctor  just  came.  ...  He  says  it's  double  pneu- 
monia." 

"Good  God!  ...  Is  it  bad  with  him,  Caroline?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  the  same  thin  voice. 

"  I'll  get  the  next  train.     Go  tell  Dick  so," 
350 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

But  could  he?  ...  He  could  not  get  a  cab,  the  calls 
for  cabs  had  been  legion. 

Alyth  was  glad  the  wind  was  behind  him  as  he  ran  to 
Madison  Avenue.  He  could  try  for  a  surface  car.  The 
up-town  cars  were  struggling  along,  the  down-town  cars 
were  stalled.  Alyth  stopped  only  long  enough  to  realize, 
then  ran  on.  At  the  crossings  he  was  almost  swept  from 
his  feet,  buffeted  and  blinded  by  the  driving  snow.  In 
the  lee  of  the  buildings  he  could  travel  better,  though  the 
coating  of  ice  under  the  snow  made  it  perilous  going. 

Alyth  missed  the  train  by  a  few  minutes;  they  were 
still  on  time.  It  was  not  until  he  turned  from  the  gateway 
that  he  remembered  Myra  and  that  long  day  of  waiting; 
except  for  the  one  dominating  thought  his  mental  faculties 
had  suffered  temporary  aphasia. 

The  Grand  Central  Station  was  not  yet  quite  completed, 
and  Alyth  stood  panting  in  an  unfinished  corridor  while 
recollection  returned,  and  ever  afterward  he  remembered 
with  dull  shame  the  sudden  temptation  to  go  to  Myra 
first  for  a  few  hours,  only  a  short  time,  and  then  to  his 
boy. .  The  ugly  thing  lifted  in  him,  swept  him,  and  passed. 
The  sickness  of  dread  and  the  ache  of  yearning  had  him 
again,  and  with  it  the  longing  to  speak  to  Myra  and  carry 
with  him  a  word  of  comfort,  of  understanding. 

He  found  a  telephone,  but  could  not  get  her;  she  had 
not  come  home  yet.  In  the  next  twenty  minutes  Alyth 
tried  several  times.  He  was  forced  finally  to  give  his 
message  to  the  maid. 

To  be  moving  was  a  relief.  In  imagination  Alyth 
climbed  the  hill  to  Manor  Park  Place  a  hundred  times. 
In  reality  he  sat  tense  and  unconscious  of  the  passengers 
that  came  and  went,  blown  in  by  the  storm  or  going  out 
to  meet  it  with  heads  bent.  Through  the  snow-incrusted 
windows  he  could  see  nothing;  their  own  rattle  and  motion 
covered  the  sound  of  the  storm;  it  was  only  at  the  stops 
he  could  hear  the  wind  whistle.  He  heard  a  man  say 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

that  at  that  rate  the  train  would  never  be  able  to  make 
the  return  run. 

After  an  interminable  time  exaggerated  by  the  half- 
dozen  stops,  Alyth  was  free  to  fight  his  way  through  the 
storm.  There  was  no  possibility  of  running;  it  was  a 
steady  struggle  upward  and  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind. 
The  snow  had  so  incrusted  the  street-lamps  that  the  way 
was  uncertain.  Alyth  could  tell  only  dimly  what  was 
sidewalk  and  what  was  street.  He  kept  to  the  middle  of 
the  street  as  best  he  could. 

Half-way  up  he  collided  with  a  man  who  clung  to  his 
arm  and  would  not  be  shaken  off.  The  next  moment 
Alyth  knew  him  by  his  voice. 

"It's  Benson,  Mr.  Alyth.  I've  been  watching  for  you," 
he  panted.  "I  couldn't  bring  the  car  out  in  this." 

It  was  Alyth's  chauffeur.  They  stood  close  that  they 
might  hear  each  other's  voice. 

"How  is  he?"  Alyth  asked. 

"It  come  awful  sudden,  but  the  doctor's  putting  up  a 
fight,  sir." 

"Is  he  conscious?     Is  he  suffering?" 

"It's  his  breathing,  sir.  Sometimes  he  knows  us — he 
knew  me  when  I  went  up  to  tell  him  I  was  coming  for 
you." 

Alyth  knew  well  the  significance  of  that  struggle  for 
breath.  They  went  on,  arms  locked,  helping  each  other 
along,  and  Benson's  story  was  told  in  snatches. 

"It's  been  so  warm,  sir,  they  set  to  work  to-day  on  the 
dredging  down  below  the  flats.  They  had  three  scows  at  it 
this  morning,  two  dredges,  and  a  snag-puller,  and  the  little 
fellow  he  saw  them  from  your  window.  .  .  .  You  know 
how  he  is — sir,  crazy  to  see  engines  and  the  like  at  work. 
...  So  then  he  was  begging  the  whole  morning  for  some 
one  to  take  him  near  by  where  he  could  see  better.  But 
it  rained  some,  and  his  mother  she  wouldn't  have  it.  ... 
I  reckon  it  was  about  twelve,  just  after  his  lunch,  when  he 

352 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

went  by  himself.  Nobody  missed  him  till  it  began  to 
blow  cold.  .  .  .  They  had  me  out  then,  and  the  gardener, 
too,  and  I  reckon  we  wouldn't  have  found  him  as  soon  as 
we  did  if  I  hadn't  remembered,  after  a  while,  what  he  had 
been  begging  for.  ...  I  found  him  down  on  the  flats^  tryin' 
to  get  home.  He'd  got  wet  through  by  the  rain,  and  got 
mired  in  a  slough — he  was  frozen  mud  from  head  to  foot, 
poor  little  chap!  ...  I  got  him  in  before  the  worst  of  the 
storm  came,  but,  my  Lord!  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  they 
could  do  would  break  that  chill.  .  .  .  Then  the  pain  in  his 
side  came  and  he  couldn't  get  his  breath.  ..." 

It  was  plain  enough  now  to  Alyth,  and  back  of  all  his 
suffering  there  was  a  vast  resentment.  A  little  under- 
standing, a  little  sympathy,  and  the  thing  need  not  have 
been.  The  antagonism  of  natures  had  ended  in  this!  A 
blindness  to  every  form  of  aspiration,  eyes  for  only  the 
material — and  a  child's  soul  longing  to  investigate  that 
it  might  create  intelligently.  .  .  .  His  poor  boy.  .  .  . 

And  while  the  little  soul  was  struggling  along  alone 
through  the  storm,  where  had  his  father's  thoughts  been? 
.  .  .  Not  with  him. 

Dick  knew  him.  When  Alyth  kissed  him  he  looked  at 
him  with  fever-bright  eyes,  and  suddenly  smiled.  "Ben- 
son— said — he'd — bring — you,"  he  gasped.  "Fathur — 
I've  got — a  hurt — in — my — side — " 

"I  know,  my  boy.  I'm  going  to  stay  here — by  you. 
Don't  try  to  talk." 

But  Dick  had  his  troubled  confession  to  make:  "  I— ran 
— away — f  athur — ' ' 

With  the  understanding  that  had  made  them  friends, 
Alyth  knew  what  to  say.  "I  know — you  wanted  to  see 
the  big  government  dredges  at  work.  They  have  them 
all  up  and  down  the  coast,  and  on  every  big  river." 

Even  in  his  pain  the  child's  eyes  widened.  "Will— we 
— make — a  dredge — when — I'm — well?" 

"Yes." 

353 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

And  then  came  the  constantly  expressed  hope:  "By — 
and  by — when — I'm — a  man  .  .  .  we'll — make — things — " 
And  at  his  father's  answer,  before  the  pain  stabbed  him 
into  unconsciousness,  Dick  smiled  again  .  .  .  then  sighed, 
"We'll—" 

There  began  then  the  three  days'  struggle  to  which 
there  could  be  but  one  conclusion.  Alyth  stood  by  and 
watched  science  tamper  with  death.  He  was  grateful  for 
the  unconsciousness  that  knew  not,  guessed  not.  When 
his  boy's  blue  lips  whispered  of  "making"  and  "doing" 
Alyth  was  glad — it  could  not  be  all  pain  then.  When  his 
whispers  were  troubled,  expressive  of  the  nervous  antag- 
onism that  had  tinged  his  life,  and  Alyth  looked  across  at 
Caroline's  blunt-fingered  hands  that  had  not  always  dealt 
gently  with  their  child,  his  own  hands  came  together, 
gripping. 

With  the  instinctive  recognition  of  the  life-giving  power 
of  love,  with  the  vague  hope  of  compelling  back  to  life 
the  soul  that  was  panting  to  be  gone,  no  one,  not  even 
Caroline,  disputed  Alyth's  prior  right  to  touch,  to  hold, 
to  possess.  The  child's  whisper  was  always  of  "fathur"; 
even  in  the  height  of  fever  it  was  the  only  word  that  was 
clearly  spoken. 

But  when  in  the  hour  that  tests  vitality  most,  the  hour 
of  transition  from  night  to  morning,  the  struggle  ended; 
when  the  spirit,  the  counterpart  of  his  own  that  Alyth 
had  understood  so  well,  was  gone,  he  gave  the  body  over 
to  Caroline's  arms,  and  with  a  remark  that  the  nurse  and 
the  doctor  remembered.  "I  am  sorry  for  you,"  he  said, 
thickly,  in  answer  to  her  sobs.  "Take  what  you  gave — 
the  other  is  mine." 

Through  that  day  Alyth  lingered  in  the  house,  sitting 
in  the  room  that  had  been  theirs,  with  the  feeling  that  his 
child's  spirit  was  near.  Some  device  over  which  the  boy 

354 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

had  been  working,  a  network  of  cords  and  sticks  begged 
from  the  gardener,  lay  in  a  heap  by  the  window,  dropped 
there  probably  when  he  stood  watching  the  new  interest. 
.  .  .  People  came  to  him  during  the  day  for  instructions, 
and  he  sent  them  to  Caroline.  She  had  comforters  about 
her;  he  heard  weeping  and  voices  that  answered;  he  heard 
Caroline's  voice  more  than  once — the  same  voice  as  al- 
ways, quite  unchanged. 

Alyth  was  possessed  of  the  idea  that  the  body  he  had 
handed  over  to  Caroline  was  hers — she  should  do  with  it 
as  she  willed — he  was  calling  to  what  was  his. .  . .  But  with 
nightfall,  when  the  wind  rose  and  again  the  snow  drove 
against  the  windows,  there  came  a  curious  certainty;  the 
spirit  he  wished  to  draw  unto  himself,  that  was  near,  and 
yet  that  he  could  not  touch,  was  gone — out  to  mingle 
with  the  Great  Energy  that  creates  and  recreates,  finding 
ever  new  forms  of  expression.  .  .  .  But  his  son,  the  more 
personal  expression  of  himself,  the  tangible  presence  that 
he  could  recognize,  commune  with,  was  gone  for  ever.  .  . . 
He  was  bereft. 

And  in  that  hour  of  utter  desolation  Alyth  asked  of 
himself:  "Am  I  building  that  I  may  pass  on  into  the 
Greater— into  which  he  has  entered?  What  manner  of 
man  is  this  I  have  fashioned?  .  .  .  And  for  a  space  he  sat 
face  to  face  with  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

MYRA  tried  to  explain  why  no  message  came  during 
those  four  days:  things  were  at  their  worst;  a  hope- 
ful message  would  mean  an  insincerity,  and  an  expression 
of  despair  would  be  a  depleting  of  Alyth's  power  of  en- 
durance. 

But  it  hurt  terribly,  this  being  set  aside  while  the  other 
suffered,  even  the  opportunity  to  comfort  denied  her. 
She  had  thought  that  for  the  rest  of  life  they  would  share 
grief  or  joy  together,  that  "for  better  or  for  worse"  they 
would  be  one.  Myra  waited  with  love  standing  at  high 
tide. 

Late  on  the  fourth  night  Alyth  came.  Myra  had  prayed 
that  he  would  come.  With  all  the  accumulated  longing 
of  the  days  and  nights  in  which  her  love  had  reached 
out  and  been  unable  to  touch  him,  she  had  prayed  for 
his  coming.  And  one  look  at  his  grief-ravaged  face  told 
her  what  had  befallen  him.  He  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
sunken  from  sleeplessness,  too  lax  with  grief  for  even  a 
word  or  a  caress,  gray-lipped,  haggard,  and  she  brought 
him  to  the  fire  that  she  had  kept  burning  brightly  every 
evening,  a  visible  expression  of  the  sympathy  that  had 
had  no  other  outlet. 

From  habit  Alyth  stood  leaning  against  the  mantel- 
shelf, and  when  she  stood  close  he  put  his  arm  about  her, 
drawing  her  to  him.  With  a  murmured  word  of  love 
Myra's  arms  circled  his  neck,  bringing  his  cold  cheek  to 
her  lips,  bending  his  head  to  her  shoulder. 

"Oh,  to  have  you  here  again!"  she  whispered, 

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THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  raised  his  head  finally,  and  looked  vaguely  about  the 
room,  as  if  making  acquaintance  with  old  associations 
after  a  long  absence,  and  then  he  looked  down  into  her 
lifted  face.  "I  left  you  all  this  time  without  a  word,"  he 
said,  dully;  "but  you  understood,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes.  ...  If  only  I  might  have  been  with  you." 

"He  had  come  to  mean  a  great  deal  to  me.  It  has 
taken  me  hours  to  realize  that  I  have  to  go  on  without 
him.  ...  I  told  you  once — there  was  a  time  when  I  nearly 
abandoned  him — nearly  gave  him  up  to  her.  I  can  under- 
stand perfectly  the  man  who  does  that  thing.  I  am  thank- 
ful I  didn't — the  poor  little  struggling  soul.  ...  I  gave  him 
what  joy  he  had — only  I  should  have  given  him  a  great 
deal  more.  I  can  see  now  how  I  might  have  done  more 
for  him — a  deal  more."  He  straightened  then  and  grew 
taut.  "By  what  right  does  a  child  belong  to  a  small- 
natured  thing  like  Caroline!  Is  there  no  process  that  will 
give  a  woman  like  that  breadth!  Just  a  little  understand- 
ing! Why  don't  other  women — her  mother  help  her  to 
it?"  Alyth's  voice  suddenly  broke.  "It — it  need  not 
have  been.  .  .  .  Just  a  little  understanding  and  it  needn't 
have  been.  If  I  had  been  with  him  it  wouldn't  have 
been;  but  I — I  sat  engrossed  in  myself — while  he — '  He 
caught  himself  up,  setting  his  teeth  on  a  sob.  "But  I 
forget — you  don't  know — "  And  he  told  her,  much  as 
Benson  had  told  him.  "There  was  no  hope  from  the  be- 
ginning," he  concluded.  "My  poor  boy — " 

Myra's  eyes  were  brimming.  "But  you  know  that  you 
were  his  love,  his  inspiration.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  know 
that,  dear." 

Aly th  moved  restlessly.  ' '  It  didn't  save  him.  He  went 
down  under  the  same  inexorable  pressure,  that  solid  in- 
capacity to  understand  that  nearly  drove  me  mad.  .  .  .  I 
decided  as  I  came  back  to-night  over  that  interminable 
way  that  the  other  evening  I  traveled  a  thousand  times 
over  in  imagination — I  decided  that  I  can't  go  back  to  the 

357 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

old  way  of  living.  She  may  have  whatever  she  wants, 
she  may  have  her  garish  house — I'll  give  it  to  her  if  she 
wants  it,  but  enter  it  again  I  will  not.  Anything  will  serve 
me  as  a  roof.  What  difference  does  it  make?  I  can't  make 
it  a  home,  and  that  is  the  only  really  satisfying  thing,  the 
thing  that  in  spite  of  all  this  ill-adjustment,  and  dis- 
ruption, and  unsatisfying  substitution  of  the  false  for 
the  real,  is  the  thing  we  crave.  .  .  .  It's  the  backbone  of  the 
universe — the  home." 

There  was  something  in  his  slow,  steady  utterance  that 
struck  cold  upon  Myra.  He  had  taken  his  arm  from  about 
her;  he  stood  looking  down  at  the  fire.  She  studied  his 
face,  its  deeply  carven  lines,  the  mouth  down-drawn  at  the 
corners,  the  gray  hue  that  edged  nostrils  and  lips.  She  also 
looked  down  then  at  the  fire  she  had  so  carefully  built, 
her  heart  beating  quickly.  This  man  she  loved  so  dearly 
had  become  remote,  inexplicable. 

Alyth  looked  up  presently  at  the  windows  against  which 
the  wind  drove.  It  was  a  night  of  wind  and  snow,  a 
second  storm  following  upon  the  blizzard.  He  moved 
again,  restlessly.  "It  is  late,"  he  said.  "Until  night 
set  in,  and  it  began  to  storm  again,  I  didn't  feel  that  I  was 
alone.  .  .  .  But  when  that  came  I  couldn't  endure  it — it 
drove  me  out.  ...  I  wanted  you  so  terribly — " 

The  fear  that  held  Myra  broke.  She  turned  so  that 
they  stood  face  to  face.  She  took  his  hands  and  put  them 
on  her  shoulders.  "I  am  glad  you  want  me.  You  are 
sick  and  cold  with  grief,  but  you  came  .  .  .  because  you 
knew  that  my  home  is  your  home,  the  only  home  you 
have  .  .  .  and  that  all  of  me  is  yours."  She  spoke  sweetly 
and  clearly. 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  as  they  had  on  that 
first  day,  only  now  it  was  Myra's  look  that  was  brilliant, 
and  the  white  face  of  determination  his.  His  eyes  had 
lost  the  daze  of  misery,  his  manner  the  aimlessness  of 
grief. 

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THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

His  hands  settled  heavily  on  her  shoulders.  "7  cannot 
do  -it,"  he  said. 

It  was  her  dilated  eyes,  not  her  lips  that  questioned  him. 

"We  cannot  do  this  thing.  ...  I  am  glad  the  hot,  de- 
manding man  in  me  that  for  weeks  has  been  deliberately 
calling  out  in  you  the  same  hunger  and  thirst  that  I  was 
enduring,  that  watched  you  reach  conclusions,  that  tacit- 
ly agreed  to  them  while  all  the  time  feeling  their  entire 
impracticability,  and  the  hurt  they  would  do  you — I'm 
glad  for  your  sake  that  that  man  is  for  the  time  being  dead. 
That  man  didn't  really  love  you — he  simply  wanted  you. 
And  the  life  you  and  he  built  would  in  the  end  be  no  more 
satisfying  than  the  life  you  and  your  husband  built,  or 
than  Caroline  and  I  built.  We  would  both  of  us  again 
be  building  upon  sand. 

"I  know  that  you  were  perfectly  honest  both  in  your 
marriage  and  in  the  relation  we  had  made  up  our  minds 
to  assume,  a  purpose,  as  you  thought,  fully  sanctioned  by 
your  reason,  nevertheless  in  both  instances  I  think  passion 
blinded  your  reason.  Secrecy  would  be  the  only  thing 
possible  to  us,  and  you  are  truth  itself,  Myra — you  would 
be  doing  violence  to  the  richest  and  best  in  you.  And 
what  sort  of  man  is  he  who  knows  the  world  as  I  do, 
knows  fully  the  risks  that  must  be  run,  the  constant  sneak- 
ing and  lying  that  would  be  necessary,  the  canker  that 
eats  away  at  all  that  may  be  beautiful  in  an  unlawful 
union,  and  yet  urges  a  woman  such  as  you  to  enter  into 
it?  Who  would  be  willing  to  subject  your  sincerity  and 
purity  to  the  cautions  practised  by  the  commonly  disso- 
lute, have  you  wrap  yourself  in  a  soiled  garment?  In 
case  of  discovery  the  world  would  never  look  beneath  the 
garment  to  discover  whether  it  covered  a  beautiful  ideal. 

"  It  is  easy  to  say,  '  My  life  is  mine  to  live  as  I  please' — 
it's  not  very  difficult  to  think  that  it  is,  but  it's  a  fallacy. 
Every  last  one  of  us  is  linked  to  the  long  chain  of  mutual 
responsibility,  a  bondage  that  is  for  our  own  good.  We 

359 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

have  certain  laws  aimed  to  guard  the  relations  of  men  and 
women,  the  outgrowth  of  what  small  wisdom  we  possess, 
and  a  public  opinion  that  in  the  main  supports  those 
laws.  Both  the  law  and  public  opinion  may  be  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  inadequate  and  unjust,  but  they  are  facts  not 
to  be  gotten  over." 

Alyth  paused,  then  went  on  in  the  same  heavy,  steady 
way,  as  if  dragging  up  from  a  great  depth,  and  with  in- 
finite effort,  each  word  he  uttered.  "It  may  seem  to 
you  that  the  shock  of  seeing  my  boy  go  has  turned  my 
brain.  It  is  not  so.  It's  simply  that  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  have  faced  myself,  the  man  I  am  fundamentally, 
and  that  man  cannot  hurt  the  woman  he  loves.  It  is 
quite  possible  that  he  is  of  smaller  caliber  than  the  woman 
that  is  fundamentally  you.  I  think  he  is.  That  he  is 
hampered  by  his  rearing,  that  he  sees  with  the  eyes  of  the 
less  advanced  half  of  humanity.  Still,  he  must  be  true 
to  himself,  or  he  would  work  you  an  injury.  That  man 
who  is  really  me  has  an  inborn  respect  for  conventionality, 
a  certain  shame  at  the  breaking  of  laws  men  have  made, 
a  certain  view  of  the  man  and  woman  who  set  aside  the 
laws  that  attempt  to  govern  sex  relations.  I  would  love 
you  passionately,  and  I  believe  faithfully,  in  a  free  union, 
but  by  no  possibility  could  I  feel  to  you  as  I  would  were 
you  my  wife.  .  .  .  That  is  the  injury  I  cannot  do  you,  and 
it  is  to  my  everlasting  shame  that  I  did  not  tell  you  so  on 
that  first  day  when  I  begged  you  for  yourself.  I  did  not 
attempt  to  mislead  you,  but  what  I  did  amounted  to  the 
same  thing — I  simply  allowed  you  to  mislead  yourself." 
He  had  finished,  and  except  for  the  outside  sounds  that 
came  to  them  the  room  was  very  still. 

Myra  had  stared  at  him  with  a  look  grown  so  dazed 
that  her  face  for  the  first  time  in  Alyth's  knowledge  of  her 
appeared  vacant.  It  was  only  when  he  was  done  and  her 
parted  lips  began  to  tremble  that  she  spoke: 

"But — you  love  me — ?" 

360 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Love  you?  ...  I  have  never  loved  you  more  utterly 
than  at  this  moment,"  he  said,  suddenly  husky.  "That 
is  what  I  have  been  trying  to  tell  you." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I — see.  ...  I  ought  to  have  known. 
.  .  .  It's  quite  natural.  Men  think  as  you  do."  Her  hand 
had  gone  to  the  mantel-shelf  for  support,  and  with  the 
other  she  brushed  her  face,  that  characteristic  gesture  of 
hers  when  in  distress,  as  of  wiping  away  something  pain- 
ful. "We  don't  think  alike,  we  have  only  feeling  in  com- 
mon," she  said,  more  to  herself  than  to  him,  and  with 
a  certain  bewilderment.  "I  thought  we  were  one.  What 
am  I  to  do?" 

Myra  was  true  to  the  thing  nearest  her  heart,  that 
dominating  desire  for  unity  that  had  been  the  motive 
actuating  her  throughout.  The  shock  of  having  been 
mistaken  in  the  mental  attitude  of  the  man  to  whom 
she  had  been  ready  to  give  her  all  was  far  greater  than 
the  hurt  of  having  offered  herself  and  been  rejected. 

"I  have  told  you  the  truth — finally — and  at  the  risk  of 
forfeiting  your  love,"  Alyth  answered,  in  the  same  husky 
way.  "If  it  is  your  decision  to  have  done  for  ever  with 
the  man  who  deceived  you,  I  shall  have  to  submit.  .  .  . 
But  I  repeat  that  I  love  you — a  thousand  times  more  than 
I  did  when  I  was  ready  to  be  untrue  to  both  you  and  my- 
self. ...  It  has  not  been  easy  for  me  to  say  what  I  have. 
I  don't  know  how  I  have  had  the  courage  to  do  it,  for  I 
know  perfectly  well  that  when  I  come  back  to  life,  the  daily 
struggle  and  emptiness,  the  hunger  for  you  will  tear  at 
me  again.  I  simply  know  that  once  before  when  I 
touched  hands  with  death  I  was  impelled  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  and  that  again  I  have  done  the  same  thing." 

Myra  stood  for  a  long  time  with  bent  head,  thinking. 
She  had  grown  dazed  and  colorless  under  shock,  but  this 
white  immobility  of  hers  was  something  quite  different. 
She  looked  up  finally  and  met  Myth's  haggard  regard. 
"  You  are  quite  right,"  she  said,  simply.  "  For  us  to  have 

361 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

come  together  would  have  been  a  fearful  mistake.  I  am 
grateful  to  you  for  having  saved  us  from  making  it.  I 
am  the  outgrowth  of  a  set  of  circumstances  that  have 
filled  me  with  the  thoughts  that  are  stirring  in  women. 
There  has  been  nothing  particularly  urgent  to  stir  men 
out  of  the  groove  they  have  hollowed  for  themselves — 
you  have  not  moved  out  of  it — in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
you  think  about  some  of  the  things  I  am  thinking  about.  I 
cannot  cast  out  the  dissatisfaction  that  is  working  in  me. 
I  am  in  revolt  against  the  entire  set  of  conditions  with 
which  your  attitude,  the  universal  attitude,  has  surrounded 
marriage.  It's  not  the  particular  form  of  marriage  that 
matters;  it  is  the  lives  we  live  under  that  form.  If  mar- 
riage cannot  be  made  more  moral  than  it  is,  I  have  little 
use  for  it.  What  great  end  does  it  serve?  When  Justin 
was  urging  me  to  go  on  with  him  in  disunion  he  said  to 
me  of  the  woman  who  was  really  his  wife  and  the  mother 
of  his  child:  'Surely  you  are  woman  of  the  world  enough 
to  know  that  that  sort  of  entanglement  means  very  lit- 
tle to  a  man.  The  woman  to  whom  he  gives  his  name 
is  the  woman  he  respects  and  considers.'  You  have  said 
practically  the  same  thing  to  me.  As  you  are  a  very  dif- 
ferent man  from  Justin,  you  would  be  true  to  the  woman 
you  took  in  free  union,  but  your  thought  would  be  prac- 
tically the  same.  It  was  your  recognition  of  the  fact  that 
has  made  you  honest  with  me.  And  I  realize  fully  the 
compliment  you  have  paid  me."  There  was  pride  in  her 
lifted  head. 

"I  know  what  your  viewpoint  is,  Myra — I  realize  fully 
the  position  you  take.  It  is  the  utter  impossibility  of 
maintaining  it  in  this  day  and  generation  that  oppresses 
me.  And  I  believe  that,  in  spite  of  my  adherence  to  the 
conventional,  and  your  inclination  to  freedom  of  action, 
if  marriage  were  open  to  us  we  would  embrace  it  to- 
morrow." 

Myra's  shrinking  was  involuntary.  "  No !  It  would  be 

362 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

the  thing  from  which  I  fled— two  people  living  together 
in  divergence." 

Alyth  stiffened.  He  put  his  hand  on  her,  the  first 
touch  of  passion  he  had  shown  darkening  his  face.  "  But 
the  fact  remains  that  we  love  each  other.  You  are  the 
mate  of  my  choice,  as  I  am  of  yours — the  future,  such  as 
it  is,  is  before  us.  What  are  we  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"I  have  asked  myself — the  same  thing,"  Myra  answered 
in  a  low  voice. 

His  look  of  possession,  his  unexpected  touch,  turned  her 
hot,  suddenly  stirred  the  desirous  woman,  that  immense 
necessity  of  hers  to  love  and  be  loved;  to  be  held  close; 
to  compel  and  be  compelled.  It  rose  in  her  and  swept 
through  her  now,  the  fierce  desire  for  the  arms  that  had 
dropped  away  from  her  for  a  short  time.  And  with  the 
sweep  of  passion  came  temptation.  What  did  it  matter, 
their  differences?  They  did  love  each  other,  and,  held 
apart  by  their  mentality,  the  future  promised  so  little. 
Why  make  a  struggle  of  life? 

Myra  glanced  away  from  him  unsteadily  at  the  room 
where  she  would  again  have  to  be  alone.  Loneliness  was 
a  horror.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  words  came  back  to 
her  with  a  force  that  hurt,  "  Loneliness  does  strange  things 
to  a  woman,  dear."  In  the  few  moments'  silence  the 
outside  sounds  had  pressed  into  the  room,  the  click  and 
rattle  of  an  omnibus,  the  husky  bellow  of  a  siren,  some 
river-boat  making  its  way  along  through  the  storm.  The 
drive  of  snow  against  the  window  was  as  distinct  as  a 
shower  of  needles.  .  .  .  And  it  would  be  so  easy.  ...  A 
little  deliberate  endeavor — warmth  and  comfort  such  as 
she  knew  how  to  give,  then  the  touch  of  her  lips,  caressing 
hands,  the  night  together — and  he  would  be  hers — the 
more  completely  because  he  had  freed  his  conscience  of  a 
burden.  The  whisper,  "Let  us  stop  thinking  and  take 
what  is  possible  to  us,"  would  meet  with  a  response  all 
the  more  passionate  because  of  reason  suddenly  cast  aside. 
24  363 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

.  .  .  And  she  would  hold  him.  She  had  never  shown  him 
her  power,  that  vast  capacity  of  hers  to  compel,  to  satisfy 
and  yet  leave  desirous,  the  passionate,  sensuous,  yet  in- 
tensely fastidious  woman  that  St.  Claire  had  awakened 
and  then  revolted. 

But  her  intelligence  would  not  down.  St.  Claire  had 
been  unable  to  strangle  it,  and  now,  though  throbbing 
to  her  finger-tips,  Myra's  brain  told  her  that  her  own 
efforts  would  not  be  able  to  kill  her  ideal.  She  had  strug- 
gled and  struggled  for  it,  that  mental  unity  that  should 
subordinate  the  fleshly.  What  would  it  profit  her  to  gain 
the  "hot,  demanding  man" ?  Or  even  to  hold  captive  the 
conventional  man  who  differed  so  entirely  from  her? 
With  the  certainty  of  the  clever  woman  she  knew  that 
she  would  never  dominate  his  reason.  That  would  always 
stand  apart  from  her.  There  would  always  be  a  cool 
corner  of  his  brain  setting  in  judgment.  In  marriage  or 
out  of  marriage  he  would  retain  the  keen,  critical  brain 
that  was  his  inheritance.  If  he  ever  came  closer  to  her 
mentality,  merged  his  with  hers,  it  would  have  to  be  of 
his  own  will,  not  because  of  any  domination  she  could 
exert. . .  .  There  was  only  the  one  thing  possible  to  them. 

"You  don't  answer  me,  Myra?"  Alyth  said.  He  had 
watched  her  color  come,  then  ebb. 

"There  is  only  the  one  thing  possible  to  us." 

"Not  to  part,  Myra— not  that?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  the  ache  in  her  throat  making  her 
voice  hard. 

"You  don't  mean  it!    You  can't  mean  it?" 

"What  else  is  possible?"  she  said,  with  difficulty. 
"Have  you  the  strength  of  will  to  come  and  yet  remain 
cold?  ...  If  you  have,  I  have  not.  ...  It  would  be  the 
same  struggle  over  again,  only  now  there  would  be 
the  hurt  of  respect  forfeited.  You  say — you  have  said 
more  than  once,  that  legal  freedom  is  not  possible  to  you. 
I  doubt  if  it  will  ever  be  granted  me.  After  what  you 

364 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

have  told  me  to-night,  what  is  there  for  us  but  to  stay 
apart?" 

"I  don't  see  how  I  am  to  live  under  it,"  Alyth  said, 
evenly.  "  In  one  day  I  have  lost  all  I  possess.  .  .  .  But  it 
was  beyond  me — that  taking  the  easier  way." 

"And  beyond  me — or  I  would  take  it  now — in  spite 
of  everything."  Myra  had  braced  herself  against  the 
mantel-shelf,  holding  herself  erect  by  sheer  force  of  will. 
If  ever  he  returned  to  her,  really  hers,  it  would  not  be 
because  of  her  tears,  or  because  of  the  tenderness  that 
was  choking  her.  It  was  his  reason  that  would  bring  him. 

And  when  he  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her,  when 
every  atom  of  her  was  conscious  of  his  rapidly  failing  will, 
when  a  word  from  her  would  have  plunged  them  headlong, 
the  renunciation  was  hers.  It  was  a  little  of  her  father's 
hard  will  that  helped  Myra  to  still  stand  erect;  that  kept 
her  lips  from  love's  response  and  her  body  from  yielding. 

Alyth  put  her  away  from  him  then  abruptly.  "You're 
right,"  he  said.  "For  us  it  must  be  everything  or  noth- 
ing." 

And  she  let  him  go. 

But  until  morning  reminded  Myra  of  a  day's  work  to  be 
done  she  lay  prone  where  she  had  once  before  kept 
vigil,  and  something  ebbed  from  her  with  her  tears — the 
sanguine  spirit  of  her  youth.  Hers  was  a  revolt  against 
conceptions  ages  old.  Alyth  was  still  bound  by  them, 
and  she  had  cast  them  off.  ...  She  had  too  arrogantly  as- 
serted her  right  to  individuality  and  been  punished.  .  .  . 
They  were  divided  both  in  opinion  and  by  unalterable 
circumstances.  The  future  stretched  gray  before  them, 
a  road  without  a  turning,  upon  which  they  must  walk 
far  apart. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

IT  was  the  indomitable  spirit  infused  into  her  by  both 
father  and  mother  that  bade  Myra  get  up  out  of  the 
dust  of  the  gray  road  and  walk  on.    She  could  not  lie 
there  inert. 

And  in  the  numb  days  that  followed  it  was  the  same 
spirit  that  prodded  her.  If  she  was  to  survive  she  must 
struggle,  and  with  every  energy  she  possessed.  If  she 
yielded  to  the  feeling  of  desolation  that  pervaded  her  she 
would  end  in  embracing  the  "lesser  thing,"  call  Alyth 
back  to  her. 

Out  of  the  urge  to  activity  grew  the  letter  that  some 
three  weeks  later  Myra  sent  to  her  father.  Milenberg 
whistled  softly  over  it.  It  was  not  like  James  Milenberg 
to  become  demonstrative  over  a  business  "proposition," 
but  Myra's  terse  communication  both  surprised  him  and 
touched  his  sense  of  humor. 

It  was  a  request  for  a  loan  at  six  per  cent.,  a  sum  with 
which  to  buy  an  immediate  interest  and  a  partnership  in 
Miss  Wentworth's  firm.  "I  can  make  over  my  interest 
to  you;  that  will  secure  you,"  Myra  wrote.  "If  possible, 
I  want  to  close  the  thing  at  once.  I  need  the  incentive." 

Of  her  apartment  she  said:  "My  lease  is  up  in  January, 
and  I  want  to  take  a  larger  and  more  expensive  apartment 
— such  as  you  suggested  last  year.  My  object  is  purely 
a  business  one.  I  should  aim  to  make  it  an  advertisement 
of  what  the  firm  of  Wentworth  &  Milenberg  can  do  in  the 
way  of  apartment  decoration.  I  must  entertain  more  or 
less,  such  people  as  are  likely  to  be  useful. 

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THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Can  you  loan  me  the  sum  I  need,  and  let  me  repay 
you  gradually?  I  know  I  can  get  the  money  elsewhere, 
but  prefer  to  borrow  from  you."  She  appended  an  ac- 
counting of  the  firm,  what  would  be  her  liabilities  and  her 
assets.  It  appeared  that  the  firm  was  making  money. 
A  partnership  would  secure  to  Myra  a  comfortable  in- 
come. 

"What's  come  over  the  woman?"  was  Milenberg's  com- 
ment. It  was  only  her  change  of  front  that  had  amused 
him;  the  "proposition"  was  as  carefully  considered,  and 
as  practical  a  business  offer  as  he  had  ever  had  "put  up" 
to  him.  It  would  seem  that  the  business  head  that  should 
have  belonged  to  his  son  had  been  put  upon  his  daughter's 
shoulders. 

Myra's  letter  pleased  Milenberg,  for  it  fitted  in  so  well 
with  his  own  plans.  For  a  long  time  he  had  wanted  to 
rid  himself  of  his  family.  They  got  on  his  nerves,  har- 
assed him.  His  wife  had  always  kept  "the  family"  so 
steadily  before  him,  and  to  the  end  of  her  life  she  would 
do  the  same.  After  the  years  of  neglect  it  was  incredible 
that  she  should  retain  any  affection  for  him;  but  for  the 
sake  of  her  children  she  intended  to  remain  his  wife.  She 
had  a  tremendous  sense  of  duty.  She  was  a  firm  believer 
in  the  single  union;  she  would  give  him  no  divorce;  she 
had  made  that  plain  to  him  years  ago,  and  had  clung  to 
her  position  as  only  a  patient  woman  actuated  by  what 
she  considers  her  duty  can  cling.  He  had  acquiesced. 
She  was  right,  of  course.  She  represented  law  and  order. 
She  stood  for  the  family.  He  respected  her;  she  was  a 
good  woman.  When  he  had  lain  ill  in  San  Francisco  the 
winter  before  he  had  actually  missed  her.  But  she  had 
never  known  how  to  enter  into  his  active  life.  She  was 
not  adaptable.  As  a  change  from  business  absorption 
he  needed  stimulation,  diversion,  excitement.  His  wife 
had  merely  plodded  along,  and  in  the  earlier  years  relied 
upon  the  fact  that  she  bore  him  children  to  hold  him. 

367 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

She  had  intentionally  and  deliberately  borne  him  children. 
He  had  never  wanted  a  large  family. 

Well,  he  had  gone  his  own  way;  found  a  woman  who 
more  nearly  ministered  to  his  immediate  needs.  He  had 
set  his  family  aside  as  much  as  possible,  and  now  it  looked 
as  if  he  could  rid  himself  of  the  responsibility  altogether. 
With  Ina  married,  and  Myra  embarked  upon  a  business 
career,  he  would  be  in  a  position  to  make  a  definite  pro- 
vision for  his  family  and  have  them  off  his  mind.  He  had 
noticed  since  his  illness  that  he  was  more  easily  tired  and 
bothered  than  he  used  to  be.  He  got  restless  even  over 
business;  the  desire  to  cut  loose  from  it  all  had  grown 
rapidly  on  him  during  the  last  year.  He  had  plenty  of 
money;  he  wanted  to  travel  about  a  bit,  to  "freshen 
up";  he  had  been  pretty  steadily  at  it  all  these  years. 

Myra's  letter  pleased  Milenberg  so  much  that  he  tele- 
graphed his  acceptance  of  her  "proposition."  And  when 
the  "deal  "  was  completed,  and  he  had  locked  away  the 
papers  that  in  due  time  he  meant  to  turn  over  to  her,  he 
gave  a  little  time  to  the  consideration  of  her  affairs — other 
than  business.  She  had  not  mentioned  her  matrimonial 
tangle.  .  .  .  Well,  the  "Mills  of  God"  ground  slowly,  but 
they  ground  exceedingly  small — if  one  was  a  fool — and 
St.  Claire  was  a  fool.  .  .  .  But  certainly  something  out  of 
the  ordinary  had  come  over  Myra.  The  cool,  hard  tone 
of  her  letters  interested  Milenberg.  In  March  he  intended 
to  spend  some  time  in  New  York;  he  would  see  then  what 
it  all  meant. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

HER  father  was  not  the  only  one  who  was  asking, 
"What  has  come  over  Myra?"  Mrs.  Du  Pont- 
Maurice,  Janniss,  Miss  Wentworth — every  one  who  knew 
Myra  St.  Claire  well  asked  of  themselves  the  question. 
Myra  was  not  quite  twenty-five;  to  all  who  came  in  con- 
tact with  her  that  winter  she  appeared  more  like  a  mature 
woman  of  thirty-five.  In  shrewdness  and  business  alert- 
ness, in  sheer  business  capability,  she  outstripped  Miss 
Wentworth.  She  attracted  business.  The  hesitant  cus- 
tomer was  invariably  captured  by  her,  even  led  into  en- 
thusiasm. The  dogmatic,  after  their  ideas  had  been 
sufficiently  manipulated  by  Myra,  found  themselves 
adopting  the  very  color  scheme  they  had  made  up  their 
minds  not  to  have,  and  emerged  from  the  struggle  fully 
convinced  that  they  had  taught  the  firm  of  Wentworth 
&  Milenberg  a  thing  or  two. 

Myra  certainly  possessed  much  of  her  father's  business 
magnetism,  but  that  would  not  have  been  so  valuable  an 
asset  had  it  not  been  joined  with  a  real  genius  for  house- 
hold decoration.  Myra's  innately  accurate  feeling  for  color 
combinations  had  been  given  poignancy  by  painful  ex- 
perience. The  garish  display  at  Milenberg  Villa  had  al- 
ways sickened  her,  and  St.  Claire's  somewhat  less  crude  but 
wholly  inartistic  exhibition  at  Woodmansie  Place  had 
equally  offended.  She  had  always  had  as  part  of  her  con- 
sciousness the  ideal  home  beautiful.  She  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  closing  her  eyes  on  the  home  unbeautiful  that  she 
might  see  visions.  The  subtlety  in  color  arrangement  that 

369 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

Myra  now  displayed  was  the  outgrowth  of  long  self-train- 
ing. It  would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  have  ac- 
quired such  perfection  in  only  a  year's  experience.  Her 
year's  experience  had  simply  taught  her  practical  methods 
of  application.  But  to  her  partner  she  appeared  a  won- 
der. It  was  Miss  Wentworth  who  suggested  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  herself  and  the  firm  to  go  abroad  for  some 
months  of  study — for  as  long  as  the  firm  could  spare  her. 

"Next  spring — possibly,"  Myra  answered,  without 
enthusiasm. 

She  wanted  to  stay  where  she  was — near  Alyth.  She 
could  not  part  with  that  feeling  of  proximity.  For  deep 
in  her,  unacknowledged,  hope  had  lifted.  Life  was  made 
up  of  many  years,  and  neither  she  nor  Alyth  was  old. 
She  had  feared  when  they  parted  that  he  might  again 
travel  to  the  ends  of  the  earth;  but  he  had  not  done  so. 
He  also  had  gone  on  with  the  colorless  daily  round.  If 
only  she  could  know  just  how  it  was  with  him?  He  had 
kept  his  word:  as  it  could  not  be  "everything"  with  them, 
it  was  ' '  nothing. ' '  It  was  March  now,  and  there  had  been 
not  a  word  or  a  line  from  him. 

Though  not  particularly  acute  in  such  matters,  Miss 
Wentworth  felt  the  existence  of  something  unexplained; 
some  determined  purpose  in  the  woman  who  was  doing 
the  work  of  three  ordinary  women.  It  was  not  mere  busi- 
ness ambition  that  was  actuating  her  partner.  She  had 
occasionally  seen  Myra's  face  when  it  was  in  repose,  the 
look  only  an  unhappy  woman  wears.  Just  what  was  it? 
What  had  come  over  her? 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice,  who,  unknown  to  her  friends, 
had  been,  as  she  expressed  it  to  Myra,  "studying  the 
militants  of  England  at  close  range,"  did  not  return 
to  New  York  until  March.  She  sought  Myra  at  once. 
Talking  with  her  little  clawlike  hands  as  well  as  her  nim- 
ble tongue,  she  poured  out  her  experiences  and  her  ob- 
servations. 

370 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"My  dear,"  she  concluded,  with  emphasis,  "the  thing 
that  appalls  one  in  England  is  its  wasted  womanhood.  It 
is  that  is  hurling  itself  against  man's  ruling  that  it  shall 
remain  wasted.  It  is  my  belief  that  only  some  great 
calamity  to  the  manhood  of  Europe  that  will  of  necessity 
bring  woman  forward  as  the  provider  both  of  men-children 
and  the  means  to  sustain  them,  only  some  great  upheaval 
of  that  nature  will  work  the  miracle  for  which  the  women 
of  Europe  have  been  praying — not  only  praying  but 
fighting." 

"The  militant  certainly  embodies  the  great  feminine 
'/  need '  carried  to  the  point  of  dementia." 

"It  is  that — exactly. ...  It  is  fortunate  for  us  that,  our 
need  being  less  importunate,  we  will  be  content  to  alter 
gradually  the  mental  attitudes  of  men  and  women." 

"We  have  a  long  way  to  travel  before  we  shall  see  any 
essential  change  in  man's  viewpoint,"  Myra  said.  She 
wore  the  look  Miss  Wentworth  had  occasionally  detected 
when  her  partner  was  off  guard. 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  studied  her  keenly.  "What 
has  come  over  you?"  she  asked.  "I  left  you  softly 
smiling — like  any  girl — withdrawn  within  yourself,  and 
shy  of  the  world,  and  here  I  am  met  by  a  tall  woman  with 
an  inscrutable  face  who  has  the  business  of  a  firm  on  her 
shoulders,  and  in  addition  is  eager  to  have  part  in  every 
interest  woman  has  manufactured  for  herself.  I  have  been 
back  but  a  few  days,  still  the  little  birds  have  whispered 
things  to  me — they  have  told  me  about  your  activities. 
You  remind  me  now  of  myself.  What  has  come  over  you, 
my  dear?"  Her  question  was  anxious.  "That  Alyth 
man?"  she  asked  herself. 

Myra  smiled,  a  smile  of  the  lips  only.  "Suppose  you 
explain  me  by  yourself." 

"You  are  hunting  distraction?" 

"No.  ...  It  is  not  that  I  want  to  be  so  busy  that  I 
have  no  time  to  think.  If  one  has  a  brain  one  will  think— 

371 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

in  spite  of  everything.  .  .  .  It's  simply  that  I  must  fight — 
for  something — anything — provided  it  makes  me  struggle. 
I  want  to  keep  alive  the  power  to  go  on.  If  I  relaxed  I 
should  be  lost." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  hesitated  as  she  had  more  than 
once  before.  Then  she  took  her  courage  in  both  hands. 
"  My  little  friend,  you  must  forgive  me,  but  I  have  feared 
it  for  a  long  time — you  and  George  Alyth  love  each  other 
.  .  .  and  now,  he  being  what  he  is,  and  you  being  the  woman 
you  are,  you  have  come  to  the  inevitable  deadlock.  .  .  . 
Isn't  it  so?" 

The  flush  that  dyed  Myra  crimson  was  a  painful  thing 
even  to  see.  She  looked  down. 

"The  dear  Lord!"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  sighed. 
And  after  a  long  pause,  "But  is  it  so  hopeless?" 

"Yes." 

"But  there  is  always  the  long  future — " 

Myra  was  silent. 

"There  is  something  you  fear,  then?" 

"Yes,"  Myra  said,  her  face  still  averted.  "I  am  afraid 
of  myself — and  I  am  in  torment  over  him.  I  know,  just 
as  I  did  on  the  night  that  we  parted,  that  the  situation 
lies  in  my  hands.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  take  the 
lesser  thing  when  I  knew  it  would  mean  the  destruction 
of  all  that  was  beautiful — between  him  and  me.  I  want 
all  of  him,  his  respect  as  well  as  his  love.  .  .  .  But  there's 
the  temptation  always  with  me.  I  know  so  well — a  mes- 
sage and  he  would  come — and  sometimes  the  longing  is 
almost  too  much  for  me."  She  raised  eyes  whose  pupils 
were  so  dilated  that  they  looked  black.  "It  sha'n't  rule 
me — the  thing  that's  mostly  passion.  That's  why  I  am 
struggling.  .  .  .  But  I  cannot  help  thinking,  how  will  it 
be  with  him?  A  man  with  a  man's  freedom  and  his 
temptations.  He  is  fighting  against  the  lesser  thing,  and 
for  the  same  reason  that  I  will  not  allow  myself  to  tempt 
him — but  with  some  one  of  the  many  others  that  will 

372 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

be  sure  to  have  their  appeal  .  .  .  how  will  it  be?  ...  I 
think  I  should  kill  her!"  She  was  primitive  enough  as 
she  drew  herself  up,  her  body  taut,  her  eyes  ablaze  with 
jealousy  over  the  visions  of  her  own  conjuring 

"Myra!" 

"Does  the  truth  horrify  you — you  who  are  always  in- 
vestigating the  psychology  of  those  about  you?"  Myra 
demanded,  bitterly.  "Men  and  women  are  not  so  differ- 
ent as  one  might  suppose;  it's  merely  that  men  have 
been  more  honest  in  their  confessions  than  women,  so 
we  know  more  about  them." 

"But,  my  dear,  you  are  in  such — danger!  .  .  .  And  I 
have  grown  to  love  you  a  little  as  I  would  were  you  my 
daughter.  The  good  Lord  never  gave  me  a  child.  .  .  .  Oh, 
these  women  of  to-day  who  analyze  themselves  so  accurate- 
ly, and  yet  are  Eve  all  over  again — just  Eve!"  Mrs. 
Du  Pont-Maurice  was  quite  unstrung;  for  the  first  time 
in  all  Myra's  knowledge  of  her  she  saw  tears  in  her  friend's 
eyes. 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  dear,"  Myra  said,  with  a 
change  to  gentleness.  "I  am  not  in  half  as  much  danger 
as  the  woman  who  did  not  know  enough  to  analyze  her- 
self, and  so  did  not  know  how  to  take  herself  in  hand. 
She  either  ate  her  heart  out,  or  did  away  with  herself,  or, 
not  knowing  what  prompted  her,  turned  to  some  other 
man — or,  worst  of  all,  tempted  the  man  she  loved  to  the 
lesser  thing.  .  .  .  You  asked  me  what  had  come  over  me, 
and  I  simply  told  you  the  truth— I  am  putting  up  a  fight 
against  myself." 

"It  is  an  awful  muddle.  I  hoped  it  might  never  be. 
.  .  .  What  will  you  do,  my  dear?" 

"Do?  .  .  .  What  I  am  doing— work." 

"  But  you  will  come  to  me  often  ?  Promise  me  that  you 
will,  and  that  you  will  talk  as  you  feel.  You  would  never 
have  spoken  out  if  it  did  not  ease  you  to  do  so.  ...  It  is 
true — women  have  always  erected  barriers  between  them- 

373 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

selves — they  are  not  honest  with  one  another — that's  why 
they  have  been  of  so  little  assistance  to  each  other.  .  .  . 
And  some  time  I  will  tell  you  a  few  things  about  myself. 
I  also  had  to  put  up  a  fight  against  myself — oh,  a  long 
time  ago,  when  I  was  as  young  as  you — but  I  bear  the 
marks  of  it  yet.  .  .  .  Promise  me?" 
Myra  promised. 

But  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  anxiety  would  not  let  her 
rest.  It  took  her  to  Karl  Janniss.  She  came  into  his 
studio  one  day,  smiling  brightly,  and  jauntily  demanded 
tea.  "Brew  me  a  decent  cup,"  she  begged.  "I  have 
been  drinking  the  black  infusion  the  English  call  tea  until 
I  am  the  color  of  ink — all  inside." 

Janniss  shook  her  by  both  hands,  genuinely  glad  to  see 
her.  "Well!  I'm  honored!"  he  exclaimed.  "When  did 
you  get  back?" 

"  Only  a  few  days  ago."  And  while  Janniss  cleared  the 
divan  and  drew  up  his  tea-table,  and  they  chatted  gaily, 
she  looked  about  her.  Against  the  wall  was  the  portrait 
of  the  man  about  whom  she  had  come  to  inquire.  But 
she  did  not  introduce  the  subject  at  once.  "Who  are 
you  doing  now?"  she  asked. 

"Senator  Bermann — there  he  is  on  the  easel — that's 
going  to  hang  in  his  new  house  in  Washington.  I'd  like 
to  paint  President  Wilson,  too." 

"Of  course — ambition  incarnate!" 

"Well,  I've  got  to  make  good,  you  know,"  Janniss  said, 
with  a  flush  and  a  squaring  of  his  shoulders.  "It  is  the 
real  thing  this  time,  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice.  You've 
heard  what  has  happened  to  me  while  you've  been  away, 
haven't  you?" 

"Is  she  like  Myra,  mon  ami?" 

"She's  like  no  one  but  just  herself,"  Janniss  declared, 
warmly.  "I'll  let  you  see  her — there  are  mighty  few  to 
whom  I  allow  the  privilege."  And  he  brought  from  his 

374 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

bedroom  a  dainty  painting  of  Ina,  a  little  thing  beautifully 
done.  "There's  my  little  brown  girl." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  took  keen  note  of  the  clear  eyes 
and  intelligent  brow.  "She  has  a  fine  face— you  are 
fortunate." 

"Don't  I  know  that!  She's  just  that— fine  clear 
through!" 

"Be  sure  you  make  her  happy." 

"I'll  try,"  Janniss  said,  deeply.  "I'm  a  blundering 
sort,  but  she'll  show  me  how.  .  .  .  We're  going  to  be  a 
sensible  couple.  You  are  broad-minded,  so  you'll  under- 
stand when  I  say  that  the  agreement  we  are  going  to 
enter  into,  the  thing  that's  between  ourselves,  is  going 
to  be  the  important  thing.  We  are  going  to  try  out  mar- 
riage, find  out  whether  we  are  really  meant  for  each 
other  first  of  all,  and  if  we  are  not,  we  are  going  to  part 
friends,  and  the  law  will  help  us  to  do  it.  ...  When  we 
know  that  much  about  each  other,  we  want  children." 

"I  suppose  it's  the  most  sensible  procedure  —  at  the 
present  stage,"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  said,  gravely. 
Then  she  underwent  one  of  her  quick  changes,  the  imp  of 
mischief  livening  her  small  features.  "And  the  portrait 
you  paint  of  your  wife  will,  I  suppose,  be  your  master- 
piece?" 

Janniss  flamed  scarlet.  "I — put  my  wife  on  canvas  for 
every  one  to  stare  at!  ...  Heavens  no!" 

"Excuse  me,"  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  apologized, 
meekly. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  Janniss  said  in  some  embarrass- 
ment over  his  heat.  "It's  usual,  I  know,  only  it  would 
never  occur  to  me  to  do  it." 

"I  think  probably  you  are  really  in  love,"  Mrs.  Du 
Pont-Maurice  remarked,  and  then  she  added,  with  gen- 
uine feeling:  "You  two  young  people  will  be  happy. 
The  greatest  danger  in  marriage  is  the  growing  apart 
of  husband  and  wife.  You  will  not  do  that.  She 

375 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

has  an  honest  eye,  that  little  girl  of  yours.  Give  her  hon- 
esty for  honesty,  and  all  will  go  well.  .  .  .  And  now  tell 
me — the  portrait  of  that  Alyth  man  I  see  over  there — 
when  did  you  do  that?" 

"Last  winter.  He  has  been  giving  me  some  sittings 
lately;  it's  practically  finished." 

"It's  as  masterly  a  piece  of  work  as  you  have  ever 
done,"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 

Her  criticism  was  just.  Clean,  forceful,  and  yet  sugges- 
tive of  the  mystery  that  always  surrounds  a  subtle  de- 
lineation of  character.  Janniss  had  shown  wonderfully  the 
secretive  man,  the  man  of  impenetrable  reserve,  and  at 
the  same  time  revealed  the  fire  that  always  lay  deep  in 
Alyth's  eyes.  An  all-pervading  capability,  reserve,  imag- 
ination— it  was  Alyth. 

But  the  whole  was  overlaid  by  an  expression  that  at 
first  was  puzzling,  and  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  keenly 
critical  faculty  put  it  into  words:  "He  wears — the  hard 
look  of — I  don't  know  just  what . . .  impatience,  determina- 
tion, disgust — no,  all  three  combined?" 

"You  have  it!"  Janniss  exclaimed.  "That  expression 
has  come  to  the  surface  in  the  last  sittings — and  because 
it's  Alyth — as  he  is,  these  days."  He  had  sprung  up  in 
his  interest,  and  was  standing  before  his  work,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  "It's  those  recent  lines  about  his  mouth. 
I'd  like  to  paint  them  out.  A  man  makes  his  mouth — 
more  than  any  other  feature.  .  .  .  Alyth's  curious — " 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

"He  has  a  bachelor  apartment — somewhere  out  in 
your  direction." 

"But  I  thought  he  was  married — " 

"Oh  yes,  but  he's  cut  loose — lately." 

"You  mean  he  has  taken  up  with  some  woman?"  Mrs. 
Du  Pont-Maurice  asked,  briskly.  Better  a  bald  question 
than  one  that  could  be  evaded. 

Janniss  was  quick  to  shield  the  other  man,  To  a  small 

376 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

extent  he  was  in  Alyth's  confidence.  "I  didn't  mean  to 
give  that  impression!  Alyth's  all  right!"  he  said,  posi- 
tively. "He's  perfectly  straight,  and  a  mighty  clever 
man.  If  he  wants  it  to  appear  that  he  has  gone  on  the 
loose  for  the  time  being,  he  probably  has  the  best  of  rea- 
sons for  it." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice's  eyes  twinkled.  She  had  in- 
stantly caught  Janniss's  meaning.  She  was  greatly  re- 
lieved. George  Alyth  was  clever;  he  would  know  how 
best  to  handle  his  matrimonial  affairs.  .  .  .  But  it  might 
be  well  to  discover  how  much  Janniss  was  in  his  con- 
fidence. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  the  usual  thing — he  has  found  some  one 
he  loves  and  means  to  marry  her?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

Janniss  was  annoyed.  "How  like  a  woman!"  he 
thought.  "As  soon  as  she  succeeds  in  extracting  a  bit  of 
information,  she  jumps  to  conclusions  that  are  not  war- 
ranted." His  answer  was  a  trifle  curt.  "I  don't  think 
so.  Alyth  may  want  his  wife  to  divorce  him,  but  I've 
seen  no  indications  of  his  being  in  love  with  any  one." 

Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  was  secretly  amused.  Janniss 
evidently  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth.  He  was  a  dear, 
lovable  man  and  a  genius,  but  he  was  not  acute  in  some 
respects.  And  he  was  something  of  a  blunderer,  so  there 
might  be  danger  to  Myra  in  all  this;  a  jealous  woman  is 
not,  as  a  rule,  reasonable. 

" I  hope  that  you  will  not  mention  the  matter  to  Myra," 
she  said. 

"Why?"  Janniss  asked,  surprised. 

"Because  Myra  has  always  had  such  a  high  opinion  of 
Alyth.  It  is  so  easy  to  put  a  wrong  construction  on  such 
proceedings.  Myra  is  not  likely  to  hear  of  Alyth's  doings 
from  any  one  but  you." 

"I'm  no  scandal-monger!"  Janniss  said,  with  some 
warmth.  "I  shouldn't  have  told  you— if  you  hadn't  sur- 
prised it  from  me." 

377 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"I  know  you  are  not — and  also  that  you  are  a  good 
friend  to  Myra  St.  Claire.  You  know  how  loyal  she  is  to 
any  one  she  likes;  it  would  hurt  her  to  feel  that  Alyth 
was  laying  himself  open  to  criticism.  Myra  has  much 
responsibility  and  worriment  to  contend  with  just  now. 
Let  us  be  considerate  and  guard  her  from  disagreeable 
things." 

"She  doesn't  seem  herself,"  Janniss  agreed.  "I  don't 
know  what  has  come  over  her." 

After  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  gone,  and  Janniss 
had  cursed  himself  for  being  a  chattering  idiot,  he  gave 
some  anxious  consideration  to  Myra.  She  was  not  her- 
self— not  the  Myra  he  had  known.  The  winter  before 
she  used  to  speak  of  her  little  apartment  with  real  affec- 
tion as  "home."  She  seemed  quite  indifferent  to  this 
new  place  she  had  made  so  beautiful.  It  was  her  attitude 
to  everything — a  certain  lack  of  interest.  She  worked 
very  hard,  she  was  indefatigable,  yet  to  Janniss  that  ac- 
tivity of  hers  seemed  no  real  part  of  herself. 

Janniss  had  for  Myra  the  genuine  interest  that  every 
man  who  has  emerged  from  an  infatuation  with  respect 
intact  feels  for  the  woman  who  once  engrossed  him.  The 
change  in  her  had  worried  him.  She  did  not  appear  ill 
as  she  had  in  the  summer,  but  it  was  quite  evident  that 
she  was  not  happy.  And  yet  she  had  been  successful  in 
asserting  her  independence.  Janniss  had  puzzled  over 
her,  and  decided  that  Myra,  like  every  one  else,  wanted 
love;  that  was  the  great  lack.  She  was  simply  making 
the  best  of  life  without  it.  He  was  very  sorry  for  her. 
He  felt  as  Ina  did,  that  life  had  gone  all  wrong  with  her. 
She  ought  not  to  be  alone.  She  needed  some  one  to  watch 
over  her.  Janniss  was  still  sensitive  over  the  criticism 
he  had  once  brought  upon  Myra. 

And  in  thinking  matters  over  he  took  exception  to  Mrs. 
Du  Pont-Maurice's  ruling.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  was 
quite  right  when  she  said  that  Myra  was  not  likely  to 

378 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

hear  of  a  man's  doings,  even  as  well-known  a  man  as 
George  Alyth;  but  evidently  it  had  not  occurred  to  her 
that  it  would  be  a  mistake  for  Myra  to  be  seen  with  Alyth 
just  now,  or  to  receive  him  at  her  home.  Alyth  would 
probably  avoid  it,  and  yet,  if  he  was  in  the  habit  of  see- 
ing Myra,  it  might  not  occur  to  him.  It  was  a  thing  he 
could  not  mention  to  Alyth.  Better  Myra  should  have 
a  warning  than  be  subjected  to  some  one  of  the  many 
embarrassments  that  might  grow  out  of  ignorance.  .  .  . 
And  Myra  was  inclined  to  be  unconventional.  She  had 
a  large  contempt  for  the  usual  narrow-minded  view  that 
tended  to  bring  strictures  upon  herself;  she  needed  some 
one  to  guard  her. 

Janniss's  conclusions  took  him  to  Myra  that  evening. 
He  had  no  liking  for  his  undertaking;  it  seemed  like  tat- 
tling on  another  man.  He  was  decided  upon  one  point: 
he  would  not  disclose  Alyth's  purpose;  he  had  no  right 
to  do  it.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  had  trapped  him  into 
admissions  against  which  he  meant  to  guard  himself. 
He  must  simply  impress  upon  Myra  the  necessity  of  being 
careful.  It  would  do  her  no  good  to  be  commented  upon 
in  connection  with  Alyth. 

Janniss  was  a  little  comic  in  his  discomfort  and  his  pre- 
occupation, so  much  so  that  Myra  finally  asked: 

"What  is  on  thy  mind?  Has  Ina  decided  not  to  be 
married  this  spring?" 

Though  Myra  smiled,  her  eyes  were  tired,  for  she  was 
tired  in  spirit.  Her  talk  with  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice 
had  left  her  heart-sick,  and  it  was  a  little  hard  to  listen 
to  the  happiness  of  others  with  an  ache  in  her  own  heart. 
She  looked  so  worn  and  heavy-eyed  that  Janniss  had  in- 
sisted on  making  her  comfortable  on  the  couch.  He  had 
bolstered  her  with  pillows  and  had  turned  down  the  lights. 
He  felt  that  he  was  the  harbinger  of  ill  news;  Myra  was 
a  loyal  friend;  he  knew  she  liked  Alyth.  It  was  a  dis- 
agreeable situation. 

25  379 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"It's  not  my  affairs  this  time,"  he  said,  summoning 
determination.  "It's  yours — or,  rather,  Alyth's  affair." 

With  a  slow  motion  that  by  no  chance  could  be  called 
nervous  Myra  had  been  playing  with  the  silk  tassel  of 
a  pillow.  Her  hand  suddenly  closed  on  it.  She  turned 
stiffly  and  looked  at  Janniss. 

"Alyth's— affair— ?" 

"Yes.  ...  I  know  you  like  him — I  suppose  he. comes 
here  sometimes — so  I  feel  I  ought  to  tell  you;  Alyth  has 
been  laying  himself  open  to  criticism  lately — the  public 
is  always  so  determined  to  take  the  worst  view — " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Myra  asked,  with  a  touch  of 
sharpness. 

"You  know  Cecile  Jerome,  the  actress?  Alyth  is  with 
her  a  good  deal  these  days,  and  though  there  is  nothing 
out  of  the  way  about  their  intimacy — Cecile  has  dozens  of 
men  friends — still,  Cecile  being  what  she  is,  there's  talk. 
Alyth's  perfectly  straight;  Alyth  is  all  right.  I'd  answer 
for  Alyth  under  any  circumstances.  He's  not  a  man  who'd 
allow  a  woman  to  dominate  him.  It's  simply — well,  just 
a  friendship  with  an  unconventional  woman  that  doesn't 
do  a  man  a  particle  of  harm." 

Myra  was  silent. 

"You  see,"  Janniss  continued,  somewhat  confusedly, 
"I  don't  know  if  you  know  it,  but  Alyth  has  separated 
from  his  wife  lately.  Some  one  told  me  that  in  the  au- 
tumn he  lost  one  of  his  children,  and  through  some  acci- 
dent for  which  his  wife  was  responsible — that  the  thing 
maddened  him — one  hears  all  sorts  of  tales;  but  it  is  cer- 
tainly true  that  he  has  severed  all  connection  with  his 
wife,  walked  out  of  their  house,  and  has  never  gone  back 
to  it.  Of  course  that  in  itself  is  enough  to  make  talk,  and 
people  who  don't  know  Alyth  as  we  do  are  certain  to  put 
a  wrong  construction  upon  his  friendship  with  a  woman 
like  Cecile.  I  assure  you  that  Alyth  is  all  right.  Next 
month  he  may  be  off  to  Central  Africa  or  the  Himalayas, 

380 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

and  in  time  come  back  with  the  thing  forgotten— that's 
the  sort  of  thing  a  man  can  do — but  just  now  there  is  talk. 
Better  for  you  to  keep  out  of  it.  Any  woman  who  is  seen 
with  Alyth  just  now  will  be  commented  on." 

"How — long — has  this  been  going  on?"  Myra  asked  in 
level  tones. 

"  Oh,  since  some  time  in  January.  It  took  a  little  time 
for  people  to  catch  on." 

"She  is  attractive;  I  have  seen  her  act,"  Myra  said  in 
the  same  quiet  way.  She  looked  down  at  the  hand  that 
lay  on  the  pillow,  a  white  patch  in  the  dimness. 

"Attractive,  yes — she's  been  responsible  for  a  deal  of 
mischief;  but,  as  I  said,  she's  not  the  kind  of  woman  to 
take  hold  on  a  man  like  Alyth.  .  .  .  Still  there's  a  nice  side 
to  Cecile.  I  discovered  that  when  I  painted  her.  She's 
foreign — half  French,  half  Bohemian.  Some  man  took  her 
when  she  was  a  mere  child,  and  when  he  found  she  had 
talent  was  decent  enough  to  give  her  an  education.  She's 
supported  a  worthless  father  and  mother,  to  say  nothing 
of  half  a  dozen  brothers  and  sisters,  ever  since.  She  is  a 
loyal  soul,  for  all  her  loose  living.  She  was  quite  frank 
with  me  about  herself;  she  considers  that  her  art  excuses 
everything — she  is  above  rules.  She  is  not  a  great  actress, 
though,  only  a  clever  one,  as  everybody  knows,  and  I 
believe  Forman  was  right  when  he  said  that  but  for  her 
absorption  in  men  she  would  have  been  a  wonderful 
actress.  .  .  .  Still,  as  I  say,  there  is  a  nice  side  to  her — 
some  really  fine  qualities." 

"It  would  have  to  be  so  with  him." 

"I  hated  to  come  tattling,  Myra,  but  I  felt  you  ought 
to  know.  It  will  all  come  out  right  in  the  end;  but  just 
now — wei^  ft  wouldn't  do  for  you  to  let  him  come  here — 
for  instance." 

"  He  is  not  likely  to  come  here— unless  I  ask  him.  You 
need  not  worry;  he  is  not  a  frequent  visitor." 

She  impressed  Tanniss  as  coldly  withdrawn;  so  much  so 
381 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

as  to  appear  indifferent.  And  it  was  as  well  so.  The 
thing  would  be  explained  in  time.  He  hastened  to  drop 
the  subject.  He  was  greatly  relieved  to  have  it  over. 

"Shall  I  clear  out  now?"  he  asked.  "You  are  tired. 
It's  good  of  you  to  see  me  at  all.  I  am  afraid  I'm  generally 
a  bore,  still  you  are  always  patient  with  me." 

"You  belong  to  me — in  a  way,"  Myra  answered,  stead- 
ily. "One  of  the  few  of  my  possessions  that  is  genuine. 
.  .  .  But  I  am  tired  to-night." 

"I  know  you  are.  I'll  go.  .  .  .  Don't  get  up.  Shall  I 
turn  the  lights  out  altogether?"  He  asked  because  Myra 
had  shaded  her  face  with  her  hand. 

"Yes,  please." 

When  he  was  gone  Myra  raised  herself  gradually,  then 
stood  up.  She  went  to  one  light  after  the  other  and 
turned  it  on,  moving  slowly  and  stiffly.  She  went  into 
the  hall  then  and  closed  the  doors  that  led  to  the  servants' 
rooms,  and  drew  the  draperies.  At  any  moment,  when 
the  thing  that  was  tearing  at  her  tortured  her  too  greatly 
for  self-control,  she  would  have  to  cry  aloud.  .  .  .  She  stood 
then  a  moment  and  looked  about  her.  ...  A  strange  house 
without  any  reminders  of  him  except  the  tall,  twisted 
Venetian  vase  on  the  mantel-shelf  that  used  to  hold  his 
daily  offering  of  roses.  He  had  brought  it  to  her  when 
he  had  returned  from  the  dead — a  wonder  several  cen- 
turies old.  She  remembered  his  look  and  his  caress  when 
he  had  presented  it  to  her.  She  had  left  the  little  apart- 
ment that  was  full  of  reminders  of  him  because  it  weak- 
ened her  will.  For  a  time  she  had  hidden  even  this  token 
of  his  love.  But  the  desire  had  finally  been  too  much  for 
her,  and  she  had  put  the  vase  where  she  could  see  it  fre- 
quently. 

Myra  went  to  it  now  in  the  same  slow  way,  and,  taking 
it  up  in  both  hands,  looked  at  it.  ...  She  had  just  listened 
to  a  man's  usual  condoning  of  another  man's  fault.  .  .  . 
And  Alyth,  the  man  whose  very  name  she  loved,  after 

382 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

all  there  had  been  between  them,  was  giving  of  himself 
to  another.  .  .  .  The  upward  sweep  of  agony  raised  the 
fragile  thing  high  above  her  head,  and  then  with  all  the 
force  that  lay  in  her  Myra  dashed  it  to  the  hearth,  and  at 
the  sound  of  its  breaking  the  wild  man  that  lies  in  us  all 
broke  loose. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

SOME  time  in  the  small  hours  Myra  lifted  her  head 
and  listened.  Bruised,  disheveled,  the  blood  that 
congested  her  eyes  blinding  her,  she  tried  to  see  whence 
came  the  persistent,  insistent  annoyance — a  shrill  ring- 
ing that  to  her  numb  ears  was  like  the  continued  buz- 
zing of  a  huge  insect.  Myra  put  back  her  hair  and  lis- 
tened. ...  It  was  the  telephone  in  the  next  room. 

She  was  at  the  foot  of  the  couch;  she  had  slipped  from 
it  to  the  floor.  She  had  clutched  and  dragged  at  every- 
thing within  reach;  she  lay  in  the  midst  of  confusion.  .  .  . 
They  would  tire  of  calling  after  a  time.  .  .  .  Myra  dropped 
back  into  the  long-drawn  breaths,  each  a  moan,  with 
which  she  was  slowly  returning  to  reason.  In  a  disjointed 
way  thought  was  obtruding  itself.  Her  fury  of  jealousy 
was  crystallizing  into  determination.  Before  twenty-four 
hours  passed  that  woman  should  be  to  Alyth  a  thing  for- 
gotten. She  knew  the  appeal  that  would  bring  him  to 
her,  and  her  power  to  keep  him  when  he  came.  .  .  .  But 
she  must  be  controlled  if  she  was  to  act  effectively.  She 
had  gone  quite  mad — he  must  never  know  that.  ...  If 
only  that  noise  in  the  next  room  would  stop — she  could 
not  think  with  the  blur  of  it  in  her  ears. 

But  it  did  not  stop,  and  with  merely  the  reassertion  of 
habit,  without  any  interest,  Myra  dragged  herself  up.  If 
she  quieted  the  thing  she  would  be  left  alone.  But  her 
feet  refused  to  serve  her  at  first,  she  had  been  lying  on 
the  hard  floor  so  long;  all  the  blood  in  her  body  seemed 
to  be  in  her  head,  in  her  eyes.  ...  It  occurred  to  her 

384 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

vaguely  that  she  was  paralyzed.    That  would  be  a  ca- 
lamity  Myra  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  couch  and,  bending 

over,  rubbed  her  feet.     The  ringing  had  ceased  abruptly. 

But  in  a  few  moments  it  began  again  and  continued, 
steadily,  and  Myra  got  up  and  groped  her  way  to  it 
through  a  brightly  lighted  room.  When  she  opened  her 
bedroom  door  it  shrieked  at  her.  Her  "Yes"  was  merely 
an  inarticulate  sound;  she  had  to  make  another  effort. 

"Hello!  Hello.  Is  there  some  one  there? .  .  .  Don't 
ring  off!"  a  man's  voice  shouted  at  her.  "Hello!  Is 
this  Mrs.  St.  Claire's  residence?" 

"Yes —      Myra  could  formulate  the  word  now. 

"Is  this  Mrs.  St.  Claire?" 

"Yes." 

"This  is  the  Waldorf.  Your  father  is  here.  He  has 
been  taken  ill.  He  wants  you — " 

"Yes — "  Myra's  brain  was  not  working  yet,  except 
over  the  one  idea:  the  determination  to  bring  Alyth  to 
her.  She  was  numb  to  every  other  interest;  incapable  of 
anything  but  the  husky  reiteration. 

The  man's  voice  had  a  note  of  exasperation.  "Your 
father,  Mr.  Milenberg,  is  here.  He  has  been  taken  very 
ill.  We've  been  trying  to  get  you,  and  couldn't  raise  any 
one.  We've  sent  a  taxi  out  for  you;  it  ought  to  be  there 
by  now." 

"My  father  is  very  ill?"  Her  consciousness  was 
pierced  at  last. 

' '  Yes.  The  doctor  says  not  to  lose  a  moment.  He  may 
be  dying!"  The  voice  flung  it  at  her  as  if  utterly  exas- 
perated that  its  owner  could  not  lay  hands  on  her,  and 
so  shake  her  out  of  sleep. 

"I  understand  now — my  father  is  at  the  Waldorf — he 
has  been  taken  dangerously  ill." 

"That's  it.  'Don't  stop  for  anything,  but  come'— 
that's  his  message.  Our  taxi  ought  to  be  there  by  now." 

"I  will  come — at  once." 

385 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

Myra  hung  the  receiver  up  and  rose.  Her  father  was 
ill — dying — she  must  go  to  him  at  once.  It  was  another 
idea,  an  urgent  thing  thrust  upon  her — something  that 
must  be  done  first  of  all.  .  .  .  Myra  put  her  hands  to  her 
head.  .  .  .  She  must  go  down  to  the  taxicab. 

It  had  come,  for  they  were  rapping  at  her  door,  the 
butler,  and  behind  him  his  wife,  the  cook.  The  door-bell 
rang  in  their  quarters;  they  had  been  more  easy  to  rouse 
than  she.  In  the  hall  stood  a  man  in  the  Waldorf  uni- 
form. 

While  Myra  gathered  up  her  hair  with  shaking  hands, 
trying  to  put  pins  in  it,  they  brought  her  long  cloak 
and  her  hat  and  veil.  The  filmy  lace  at  the  sleeves  and 
neck  of  her  tea-gown  hung  in  tatters,  and  the  butler  looked 
curiously  at  it  and  at  her  livid  face.  His  wife  was  con- 
fused and  useless,  but  he  was  cool.  He  had  glanced  into 
the  brilliantly  lighted  drawing-room  and  seen  the  havoc, 
chairs  thrust  .aside,  some  of  them  overturned,  the  vase 
shattered  on  the  hearth,  the  couch  in  disarray!  Their 
rooms  were  above,  and  at  the  rear  of  the  duplex  apart- 
ment; they  had  heard  nothing.  What  in  Heaven's 
name  had  been  happening  while  they  slept? 

"Your  lip  is  cut,  madame,"  he  suggested,  proffering  a 
wet  towel. 

Myra  pressed  its  coolness  to  her  swollen  mouth.  When 
she  took  it  away  it  was  stained.  "My  hand-bag — on  the 
dresser,  there!"  she  said.  "Put  some  handkerchiefs  in 
it."  And  while  they  did  what  she  ordered  Myra  held  the 
wet  towel  to  her  bruised  and  burning  wrists.  Her  facul- 
ties were  returning  to  her.  .  .  .  Was  her  father  in  actual 
danger? 

The  man  from  the  Waldorf  told  her  a  little  as  he  took 
her  down  to  the  cab.  James  Milenberg  had  come  in  on 
the  late  train,  apparently  feeling  as  well  as  usual.  But 
he  had  not  been  in  his  room  an  hour  before  he  had  aroused 
the  office.  They  had  done  their  best,  summoned  their 

386 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

physician,  and  he  in  his  turn  had  called  a  specialist.  It 
was  appendicitis,  a  very  bad  attack;  her  father  was  in 
grave  danger. 

"He  must  be  in  pain,"  Myra  said  in  a  voice  that  was 
still  dull. 

The  man  drew  a  quick  breath.  "I  hope  I'll  never  see 
the  like  again.  .  .  .  Mr.  Milenberg  gave  your  address  clear 
enough,  though,"  he  added,  admiringly.  "He  has  nerve 
— James  Milenberg  has."  They  knew  Milenberg  well 
at  the  Waldorf;  he  always  stopped  there. 

It  was  a  very  dark  night.  Patches  of  snow  dimly 
white  against  the  black  pavement  raced  by  them.  When 
they  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue  they  went  haltingly  for  a 
few  blocks;  something  had  gone  wrong  with  their  engine. 
The  man  was  outside  with  the  driver,  so  Myra  was  alone, 
and  when  they  stopped  for  an  impatient  moment  she 
noticed  in  an  extraneous  way  that  the  Avenue  wore  the 
clean-swept  aspect  of  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the 
shops  guarding  it  like  sentinels  asleep  at  their  posts.  An 
unshuttered  window  stared  at  her  with  the  blank  orbs  of 
a  sleep-walker,  dully  glazed,  and  only  faintly  revealing 
shrouded  forms,  arrays  of  pale  ghosts,  thoughts  hypnotized. 

There  had  come  over  Myra  the  sense  of  unreality  that 
usually  follows  upon  hours  of  emotional  tensity.  Her 
first  feverish  thoughts,  the  promptings  of  fury  and  jeal- 
ousy, were  dulled.  She  had  more  the  feeling  that  some- 
thing annihilating  had  happened  to  her.  She  felt  heavy, 
numbly  hurt.  It  did  not  seem  strange  or  startling  that 
her  father  was  in  extremity;  the  whole  world  seemed 
wrapped  in  a  fog  of  pain.  She  was  being  hurried  to  her 
father,  and  yet  she  felt  no  great  impatience  over  the  few 
moments'  stop.  She  was  extraordinarily  tired. 

Myra's  first  really  normal  thought  was  when  she  was 
ushered  into  the  atmosphere  of  intolerable  suffering;  of 
haste,  of  rapid  decision,  and  quick  action.  They  had  de- 
cided to  operate  at  once;  that  the  usual  rushing  of  the 

387 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

patient  to  the  hospital  was  out  of  the  question.  Prepara- 
tions were  already  under  way;  a  white-clad  nurse  was  at 
the  telephone  giving  orders,  and  two  tall  men,  the  doctors, 
were  moving  swiftly  about  the  room.  Hotel  attendants 
padded  in  and  out,  fetching  and  carrying,  running  when 
they  went  out  into  the  corridor. 

It  was  the  thought  of  her  mother  that  came  suddenly 
to  Myra,  and  because  of  the  love  that  lay  between  them 
she  was  jerked  abruptly  away  from  thoughts  of  herself. 
This  would  be  a  fearful  thing  for  her  mother !  It  was  her 
father's  face  with  its  twitching  muscles  and  hot  eyes  that 
shocked  her  into  complete  reality. 

Myra  knelt  that  she  might  hear  better,  and  his  small, 
wiry  hand  that  had  been  clutching  the  bedding  closed 
then  on  her  bruised  wrist. 

"Listen!"  he  said.  "I've  got — only  a  few  minutes — 
before  they'll  handle  me  like  any  dead  beef.  .  .  .  Send  for 
your  mother.  Get  her  here  as  soon  as  you  can.  I  want 
her.  Do  you  hear?  Tell  her  I  want  her. . . .  Everything's  in 
order.  Scott  has  my  papers — he  drew  up  my  will.  You've 
got  the  only  business  head  in  the  family — you  consult  with 
him.  .  .  .  He'll  tell  you  about  St.  Claire.  Scott's  the  only 
one — besides  Nathan  Kodis — who  knows  what's  afoot. 
It's  not  been  my  doing.  Justin's  been  .  .  .  a  fool.  ..." 

He  muttered  and  gasped,  his  shoulders  twisting  against 
the  pillow,  and  because  he  was  passing  into  a  delirium  of 
pain  he  looked  at  his  daughter  vaguely.  "So — you've 
come — at  last,  Myra?" 

Myra  took  the  hand  that  had  dropped  hers,  and  put 
her  cheek  against  it.  "Yes,  father.  I  have  thought  of 
mother — I  will  send  for  her  at  once.  I'll  do  whatever  you 
want  done — " 

Milenberg  steadied  himself  with  a  tremendous  effort 
for  the  reiteration  of  the  two  ideas  uppermost  in  his  mind. 
"That's  it.  You  get  your  mother  here — so  you  can  look 
after  her.  Tell  her  to  bring  Ina.  . .  .  She's  a  good  woman, 

388 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

your  mother.  She's  always  done  the  best— she  knew.  But 
Myra,  it's  you'll  have  to  look  after  the  family  now.  There's 
Eustace;  he's  irresponsible:  you'll  have  to  look  after  him 
like  a  baby.  Lord !  if  I  had  a  son— who  could  carry  things 
on !"  He  rolled  his  head  distressfully  on  the  pillow,  mutter- 
ing words  Myra  barely  caught.  ' '  You're  a  comfort  to  me— 
after  all.  .  .  .  The  man  who  wants— big  money— he's  got 
to  rule.  .  .  .  It's  either  eat — or  be — eaten— with  him.  .  .  . 
But  a  man's  down — and  out — awful  quick.  ..." 

Myra  felt  the  doctor's  hand  on  her  arm,  lifting  her,  mov- 
ing her  aside.  "We  must  give  an  opiate  now,"  he  said. 

^  Milenberg  heard  and,  turning  his  head,  looked  at  them, 
his  brain  suddenly  grown  clear,  his  eyes  steel-pointed. 
"So  you're  going  to  take  away  my  wits,  are  you?"  he 
demanded,  sharply.  "Can't  you  do  it  without  that? 
I'll  stand  for  it." 

In  his  piercing  look,  keen  despite  the  agony  that  was 
twisting  him,  lay  the  dread  of  the  man  who  for  a  lifetime 
had  relied  on  his  wits  to  fight  the  great  battle.  He  had 
owned  to  no  will  but  his  own ;  relied  on  no  one.  His  re- 
liance had  been  upon  the  power  he  had  won,  and  here  he 
lay,  helpless  as  any  tortured  child. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  decidedly.  "I'm  afraid  not, 
Mr.  Milenberg." 

Milenberg  eyed  him  a  moment,  not  shrinkingly,  with 
a  look  of  defiance,  rather,  commingled  with  bewilderment. 
Then  he  gathered  himself  together.  "Very  well,"  he 
said,  decidedly.  "If  it's  got  to  be,  it's  go  to  be.  ... 
Myra,  remember  what  I've  told  you  —  be  .good  to  your 
mother.  She's  stood  by  me  for  thirty  years  or  so. 
We  belong  to  each  other  by  rights  —  she  ought  to  be 
in  at  the  finish.  ...  Go  ahead,  doctor—"  And  he  turned 
his  face  from  them. 

Myra  did  her  father's  bidding,  the  difficult  task  of  con- 
veying over  the  telephone  urgency,  but  not  terror.  There 

389 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

followed  then  the  time  of  waiting — until  science  accom- 
plished its  work. 

Myra  sat  alone,  the  window-shade  raised  high,  her  eyes 
on  a  strip  of  opaque  sky  shot  with  the  angry  glow  of  the 
city.  She  sat  alone  until  it  began  to  gray,  and  in  that 
space  she  learned  what  Alyth  had  meant  when  he  said, 
"It's  simply  that  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  have  faced 
myself,  the  man  I  am  fundamentally."  Myra  was  facing 
herself,  the  woman  she  was  fundamentally  and  the  woman 
she  had  builded,  and  like  the  anger-hued  black  in  the  strip 
of  sky  above  her,  rage  and  jealousy,  self-will  and  self- 
seeking,  the  hot,  demanding  woman  in  her,  grayed  into 
a  better  understanding. 

Fundamentally  she  was  very  like  the  suffering  man  in 
the  next  room,  who  was  steeped  now  in  unconsciousness; 
reliant  always  upon  her  own  will,  impatient  of  law,  ready 
to  make  her  own  law,  bid  defiance  to  the  decisions  of  gen- 
erations of  law-builders — determined,  self-centered.  There- 
in lay  the  fault  in  her  building — she  had  built  after  a 
fashion  that  had  cemented  those  qualities;  she  had  moved 
in,  and  about,  and  for  herself — always. 

Myra  went  far  back  into  her  childhood.  Was  there 
any  one  to  whom  she  had  given  love,  or  loving  thought, 
but  her  mother?  And  that  reflected  no  great  credit  upon 
herself — what  child  would  not  treat  tenderly  such  devo- 
tion as  her  mother's?  Hers  had  been  a  hardening  girl- 
hood, rasped  raw  by  impatience,  critical,  saved  from  cal- 
lousness only  because  she  had  succeeded  in  treasuring  an 
ideal.  She  had  been  bitter  in  her  judgments  of  the  father 
whose  voice  she  might  never  hear  again,  and  tolerantly 
loving  of  the  mother  who  had  yearned  over  her.  Even 
her  ideal,  her  worship  of  truth,  commingled  as  it  was  with 
the  intense  desire  to  be  loved,  was  tinged  with  devotion 
to  self.  One  might  yearn  to  build  life,  but  the  yearning 
lacked  the  real  vivifying  principle  if  not  hand-clasped 
with  the  humble  sisters,  Faith,  Hope,  Charity,  and  Self- 

390 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

sacrifice.  In  all  her  life  who  had  she  helped  ?  Over  whom 
had  she  expended  herself?  How  else  but  arrogantly  had 
she  borne  herself?  ...  She  had  not  built  well.  If  she 
meant  to  weave  her  life  into  the  Great  Future,  step  up 
and  not  down,  she  must  build  differently. 

Slowly  and  painfully  Myra  put  together  the  pieces 
drawn  one  by  one  from  out  her  scrap-bag  of  experiences. 
In  her  utter  desolation,  with  the  consciousness  that  to 
her  there  was  only  "retrospect  left,"  she  wove  them,  as 
she  had  long  ago  said  to  Alyth,  into  the  pattern  of  her 
"patchwork  quilt."  Next  the  "bitter  black"  of  her  dis- 
appointing marriage  she  placed  the  "hot  red"  of  her  pas- 
sionate desire  for  Alyth;  for  it  had  been  that  with  her,  as 
it  had  been  with  him.  Not  that  alone,  thank  God!  not 
that  alone!  But  a  love  belittled,  well-nigh  destroyed,  by 
it.  The  purely  animal  craving  that  had  set  her  to  moan- 
ing and  beating  about  like  any  mad  creature  appalled 
her.  In  intention  she  had  killed  a  dozen  times;  and  even 
when  returned  to  reason  she  had  planned  to  subjugate  the 
man  she  desired,  as  would  any  abandoned  woman.  ...  It 
was  horrible !  ...  To  the  end  of  her  life  she  would  redden 
with  shame  over  that  revelation  of  herself. 

She  had  been  saved  from  remaining  in  the  dust  of  the 
gray  road  and  groveling  in  it  by  a  call  to  duty.  Her 
father  had  needed  her;  they  all  needed  her.  Her  mother's 
passionate  setting  forth  of  duty  recurred  to  Myra,  and 
also  Alyth's  face  of  white  determination  when  he  had  said, 
"Every  one  of  us  is  linked  to  the  long  chain  of  mutual 
responsibility,  a  bondage  that  is  for  our  own  good."  .  .  . 
Others  had  suffered  as  tremendous  a  hurt  as  she.  Myra 
thought  of  the  two  women  she  knew  best.  What  had  her 
mother  done  when  life  had  dealt  her  a  blow?  Turned  to 
duty,  wrapped  herself  in  her  children,  to  the  best  of  her 
ability  lived  in  and  for  them.  And  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  ? 
Myra  knew  that  there  was  some  tragic  disappointment 
beneath  all  that  restless  activity  of  hers.  Myra  had 

39i 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

learned,  and  not  from  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice,  the  num- 
bers whom  her  little  white-haired  friend's  money  and 
interest  helped.  No  woman  in  need  ever  appealed  to  her 
in  vain.  In  her  business  experience  was  she  not  constant- 
ly stumbling  upon  the  man  or  woman  who  held  to  life 
because  of  responsibility  to  others? 

Myra  had  taken  them  one  by  one  and  stitched  them 
into  place,  her  collection  of  experiences — until  she  came  to 
the  last.  To  look  at  it,  touch  it,  caused  her  exquisite 
pain;  the  man  she  loved  had  stumbled  and  fallen  into 
the  dust  of  the  gray  road,  and  the  hurt  she  would 
carry  through  life  was  the  realization  that  the  love 
she  had  aroused  in  him  was  not  such  as  to  make  im- 
possible the  thing  that  had  happened.  .  .  .  And  the 
blame  was  partly  hers.  She  had  received  such  as  she 
had  given — an  imperfect  love.  A  great  love  is  incapa- 
ble of  jealousy  and  hatred.  It  does  not  falter  or  turn 
aside.  They  had  failed  to  reach  the  heights;  they  had 
failed  in  friendship  to  each  other  ....  The  realization 
would  come  to  him  as  it  had  to  her.  He  would  gather 
himself  up  out  of  the  dust,  just  as  she  had — she  knew 
it.  Then  there  might  be  possible  to  them  a  love  that 
would  surmount  desire;  that  would  not  fear  contact; 
that  could  forego  and  yet  be  content. 

When  the  tinge  of  gray  began  to  pale  the  lights  in  the 
room  the  doctor  came  to  her.  He  answered  briefly  the 
question  her  eyes  asked.  He  looked  a  little  haggard  in 
the  mingled  light. 

"We  found  a  bad  state  of  things.  A  little  longer  and 
it  would  have  been  too  late.  He  is  doing  as  well  as  we 
could  expect,  but  what  the  future  '11  bring  is  impossible 
to  predict."  He  looked  curiously  at  her  then,  arrested 
by  her  deadly  pallor  and  swollen  lips.  "  You  have  had  an 
accident?"  he  asked.  He  was  a  kindly  spoken  man,  one 
of  the  city's  greatest  surgeons. 

392 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"  I  cut  my  lip  on  glass." 

"  I'll  give  you  something  for  it.  ...  See  then  if  you  can 
rest.  There  is  nothing  you  can  do — I  shall  be  here  most 
of  the  day;  but  when  the  news  of  this  gets  about  your 
hands  will  be  full.  And  it's  just  as  well  so.  I've  found 
in  my  experience  that  there's  no  aid  in  trouble  like  a  duty 
right  at  hand.  Your  mother  will  be  here  to-night;  you 
must  think  of  her.  The  last  word  your  father  said  to  us 
was  that  he  'relied'  on  you." 

He  gave  her  the  reminder  purposely.  She  looked  so 
ghastly,  as  one  might  look  when  brought  from  a  torture- 
chamber.  . 

The  first  tears  Myra  had  shed  welled  in  her  eyes.  "I 
will  do  my  best." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IN  the  days  that  followed  Myra  did  do  her  best. 
Mrs.  Milenberg  came  that  night,  white-faced,  but 
with  her  faded  eyes  grown  luminous.  It  seemed  to  Myra 
that  her  mother  had  suddenly  gained  in  stature,  that  her 
shoulders  were  less  rounded,  her  head  more  erect.  Her 
daughters  stood  on  the  threshold,  watching  her  go  to  their 
father  as  directly  as  a  bird  flies,  and  when  his  feeble  hand 
gropingly  found  her  white  head  that  was  bent  to  his  breast, 
they  could  guess  at  his  whisper  from  her  answer: 

"Yes,  I  knew  you  would  want  me,  dear." 

And  again  the  whisper  that  reached  her  ear  alone,  but 
that  the  deep  note  of  her  reply  made  distinct  enough  to 
their  understanding:  "But  I  took  you  for  better  or  for 
worse,  James.  I've  been  the  best  friend  you've  ever 
had—" 

They  closed  the  door  then,  leaving  the  two  together, 
and  their  arms  went  about  each  other.  It  was  Ina  who 
wept:  "Who  would  have  thought — it  would  come  about 
like  that — Myra?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  pray  father  will  live!  ...  He 
must  live.  ..." 

With  feelings  too  deep  for  speech  Myra  kissed  her 
sister.  It  was  truth  itself,  that  old  conviction  of  hers,  that 
only  a  love  cemented  in  by  friendship  can  weather  the 
storms  of  life.  "A  friend  loveth  at  all  times,  and  is  a 
brother  born  for  adversity."  She  was  being  taught  the 
great  truth  anew. 

Myra  gave  Ina  over  to  Janniss's  comforting  arms  and 
turned  to  the  work  at  hand.  The  doctor  was  right  when 

394 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

he  had  said  that  Myra  would  have  her  hands  full.  The 
complication  he  feared  had  set  in,  and  all  the  world  knew 
now  that  James  Milenberg's  life  hung  by  a  thread. 
Myra  learned  then  how  innumerable  had  been  her  father's 
interests.  Telegrams,  messages,  poured  in.  Milenberg's 
lawyer,  Scott,  came  from  Chicago,  and  it  was  Myra  who 
was  closeted  with  him.  Because  she  had  forgotten  about 
herself,  her  father's  mention  of  St.  Claire  had  passed  from 
her  mind,  and,  true  to  his  lawyer's  creed,  Scott  volunteered 
no  unnecessary  information;  there  were  a  hundred  other 
things  that  related  more  closely  to  his  client's  affairs  that 
must  be  discussed.  Janniss  had  come  promptly,  and  had 
relieved  Myra  of  much.  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice  also 
came.  Her  active  assistance  was  for  any  one  who  needed 
it;  but  Myra  was  her  particular  charge,  so  she  had  a  word 
for  Myra's  ear  alone. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  with  a  cheerful  disregard  of  the 
possibility  that  Myra  might  be  as  well  informed  as  she, 
"some  one  told  me  last  night,  as  we  were  watching  Cecile 
Jerome  in  her  new  play,  that  George  Alyth  had  left  for 
Europe  a  few  days  ago.  Were  he  here  he  would  be  a  right 
hand  to  you  in  all  this  trouble.  As  it  is,  he  knows  nothing 
about  it,  of  course." 

A  speech  delivered  apparently  entirely  without  a 
double  meaning,  but  one  that  brought  the  color  to  Myra's 
pale  cheeks  and  a  tremor  to  her  hands.  .  .  .  .He  had  gath- 
ered himself  up,  then,  out  of  the  dust  of  the  gray  road,  and 
was  going  on  ?  She  had  known  that  he  would.  Myra  had 
no  answer  at  all  for  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice,  but  the  com- 
fort of  that  speech  entered  into  her  as  her  little  friend 
meant  it  should,  and  helped  her  when  she  was  nearly 
fainting  with  anxiety  and  weariness. 

It  was  not  until  the  fifth  day  that  Myra  was  able  to  go 

to  her  office  to  make  arrangements  with  Miss  Wentworth. 

She  must  be  relieved  of  business  cares  for  a  time  at  least. 

If  her  father  died  she  must  give  herself  to  her  mother, 

26  395 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

and  even  if  he  lived,  of  which  there  seemed  no  hope,  she 
would  be  needed.  Then  she  went  to  her  apartment,  the 
first  time  she  had  entered  it  since  the  night  of  her  being 
hurried  away. 

She  was  given  little  time  to  reflect  on  that  night  of 
misery.  "There  is  a  lady  waiting  to  see  you,  madame," 
the  butler  announced,  when  she  came  in.  "She  said  it 
was  a  matter  of  the  greatest  importance,  and  as  you  had 
sent  word  you  would  be  here,  I  permitted  her  to  stay." 

"Who  is  it?"  Myra  asked. 

"I  will  get  her  card,  madame." 

But  Myra  did  not  wait  for  it.  She  went  on  into  the 
drawing-room,  her  first  glance  for  the  spot  where  she  had 
intentionally  destroyed  a  beautiful  thing.  Myra  red- 
dened dully  at  the  remembrance.  How  could  she  have 
done  it !  The  hearth  was  swept  clean  of  the  bits  of  glass. 
The  sunshine  rested  on  the  trim  couch,  and  on  the  woman 
who  rose  to  meet  her.  ...  It  was  Harriet  Swift. 

It  struck  Myra,  together  with  her  surprise,  that  the 
woman's  face  wore  the  -white  look  of  strained  'anxiety 
that  was  the  expression  with  which  she  had  become  most 
familiar  in  the  last  few  days — the  same  expression  that 
was  stamped  upon  her  own  features.  Myra  had  become 
a  woman  of  few  words  during  that  time  of  stress,  so  her 
greeting  was  simple: 

"  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you.  They  told  me  it  was  some- 
thing important?"  They  clasped  hands  as  they  had  when 
parting  at  Acton  Place. 

"It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  or  I  wouldn't  have  in- 
truded when  you  are  in  trouble,"  Mrs.  Swift  answered. 
"I  came  to  New  York  yesterday.  I  have  been  so  pre- 
occupied that  I  didn't  happen  to  see  the  notices  in  the 
papers.  It  was  Frank  Hipbard  who  told  me  this  morn- 
ing." 

She  spoke  in  the  same  collected  way  Myra  remembered 
so  well;  quite  calmly  in  spite  of  her  look  of  strain  and 

396 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

anxiety.  She  was  very  pale,  the  shadows  dark  under  her 
cold  eyes.  She  looked  aged,  the  skin  about  her  mouth 
drawn,  and  her  lips  colorless.  Yet  there  was  still  the  air 
of  magnificence  about  her — a  certain  statuesque  ampli- 
tude. 

"It  is  all  a  matter  of  life  and  death  these  days,"  Myra 
returned.  "I  am  sorry  if  you  also  are  in  trouble."  She 
took  off  her  hat  as  she  spoke,  mechanically,  merely  be- 
cause of  the  consciousness  that  she  was  very  tired.  She 
knew  in  a  vague  way  that  Mrs.  Swift  had  come  from  St. 
Claire,  and  in  the  same  vague  way  she  realized  that  she 
had  always  known  that  sooner  or  later  St.  Claire  would 
be  in  difficulties,  and  that  his  difficulties  would  be  brought 
to  her.  But  this  was  a  curious  messenger  to  choose. 

"You  haven't  heard,  then?"  Mrs.  Swift  said.  "I 
thought  possibly  your  father  might  have  told  you." 

Myra  was  struck  afresh  by  the  woman's  strained  look 
and  level  tones.  She  studied  her  more  intently.  "No, 
father  has  not  told  me — he  has  been  too  ill.  ...  What  is 
it?" 

"Justin  is  ruined — worse  than  ruined." 

Myra's  eyes  widened  at  the  sudden  deep  note  of  de- 
spair. "I  have  always  suspected  that  Justin  was  in 
money  difficulties — that  that  was  one  reason  he  married 
me.  .  .  .  What  do  you  mean  by  'worse  than  ruined'?" 

"  It's  not  just  that  he's  ruined— plenty  of  men  survive 
that.  He's  disgraced." 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  left  her  husband  Myra 
had  the  feeling  that  he  was  a  part  of  her.  The  ugly  word 
that  must  sear  him  touched  her.  She  flushed.  You 
mean — ?" 

"That  he  has  used  funds  intrusted  to  him.    It's  a  long 

story — " 

A  suspicion  that  for  a  long  time  had  lain  unformulated 
in  Myra's  mind  sprang  into  words.  "Not  Adele  Cour- 
land's  money?" 

397 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Yes."  Mrs.  Swift's  voice  faltered  on  the  admission. 
"Hers  and  others',  but  I  didn't  know  it.  ...  It's — a  long 
story—" 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  Myra  interrupted,  huskily.  "You 
are  not  fit  to  stand.  .  .  .  Now  tell  me — " 

"Justin  never  ought  to  have  speculated,"  Mrs.  Swift 
said.  "That's  the  way  his  wife's  money  went — most  of 
it.  That  was  back  in  the  early  days  when  I  first  knew 
him.  He  had  the  management  of  his  wife's  money  during 
those  years  when  she  was  irresponsible,  and  it  was  a  long 
course  of  taking  from  Peter  to  pay  Paul,  keeping  the  estate 
in  the  dark.  The  thing  was  done  before  I  knew  Justin; 
the  best  I  could  do  was  to  help  him  keep  out  of  trouble. 
If  she  had  not  left  her  money  to  him  unconditionally, 
exposure  would  have  come  when  she  died.  All  those 
years  Justin  had  the  possibility  hanging  over  him,  hell 
enough  for  any  man,  and  a  sufficient  object-lesson,  one 
would  suppose,  but  Justin  had  the  'big  money'  idea  in 
the  marrow  of  him.  I  tried  to  keep  him  to  his  practice. 
He  had  a  good  conservative  practice,  and  during  the  three 
years  when  he  was  doing  government  work — when  he  was 
in  Europe  and  the  Philippines — he  had  a  big  salary.  But 
after  his  wife  died,  and  he  knew  he  was  safe,  he  got  rest- 
less. He  had  taken  up  his  practice  again  in  St.  Louis. 
He  had  a  huge  practice  then,  and  the  management  of 
several  estates.  But  he  had  cultivated  the  moneyed 
crowd,  and  he  wanted  to  travel  with  them.  It  drove  him 
frantic  that  he  couldn't  make  a  fortune  at  a  leap.  He 
was  supposed  to  have  his  wife's  money.  He  got  a  lot  of 
credit  he  didn't  deserve  from  the  conservative  because 
he  didn't  gamble  with  big  sums,  as  the  rest  did.  It 
made  people  trust  him  who  otherwise  might  have  been 
skeptical.  He  had  plenty  of  other  people's  money  to 
handle,  mostly  women's  money,  for  he  was  considered 
so  safe. 

"Then  he  met  you,  and  he  thought  he  saw  his  way  clear 

393 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

to  do  great  things.  He  could  be  of  use  to  your  father, 
for  your  father  was  trying  to  get  the  best  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  in  payment  he  expected  to  make  a  fortune  in 
some  of  your  father's  big  undertakings.  He  was  carried 
away  by  what  he  thought  was  an  extraordinary  oppor- 
tunity. .  .  .  But  he  ran  a  big  risk.  He  didn't  play  fair, 
for  he  let  your  father  think,  together  with  everybody 
else,  that  he  had  a  deal  more  money  back  of  him  than  he 
had.  .  .  .  And  what  could  I  do?  Raise  a  scandal,  tell  on 
him?"  She  lifted  her  hands  and  dropped  them,  an  ex- 
pression of  utter  futility.  "  I  simply  had  to  knuckle  under 
— there  was  my  little  girl  to  consider.  I've  always  had 
her  to  consider.  I'd  learned  in  those  four  years  during 
which  Justin  was  free  to  marry  me  that  he  would  never 
do  it.  He  is  not  the  kind  of  man  who  marries  his  mis- 
tress. ...  He  thought  it  safest  for  me  to  go  to  Paris.  I 
went.  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  would  want  me  back. 
I  knew  he  would  do  foolish  things. 

"His  first  folly  was  Woodmansie  Place.  Then  he  put 
what  money  he  had  left  on  some  of  your  father's  ventures. 
That  was  all  right  enough;  there  is  no  shrewder  investor 
in  this  country  than  your  father;  but  Justin  was  having 
to  do  now  with  men  who  had  millions  to  back  them. 
They  could  hold  out  any  length  of  time,  or  follow  a  policy 
that  would  wipe  out  the  less  fortunate  investors.  Having 
that  money  of  Adele's  that  he  could  use  was  a  bad  thing. 
When  the  directors  of  the  U.  M.  M.  tied  up  its  dividends 
for  three  years,  Justin  fell  back  on  Adele's  money.  .  .  . 
Adele  came  from  Paris  then.  She  wasn't  thinking  of  her 
money  she's  a  poor  thing  with  a  lopsided  brain;  it  was 
simply  that  she  had  been  mad  over  Justin  for  years,  and 
she  was  furious  that  he  had  married  you.  She  meant  to 
make  trouble  between  you  if  she  could. 

"Well  Justin  had  speculated  on  the  side  with  me 
Adele's  money,  and  done  no  better  with  it  than  he  hac 
with  his  wife's.    He  was  terribly  excited  and  worried. 

399 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

He  couldn't  afford  to  break  with  Adele.  He  sent  for  me 
then,  but  he  didn't  tell  me  he  had  used  Adele's  money, 
only  that  he  was  tied  up  tight.  I  thought  that  his  com- 
bination with  your  father  wasn't  doing  him  any  good.  I 
hoped  you'd  break  with  Justin — for  more  reasons  than 
one — I  seemed  to  be  the  only  person  who  was  fitted  to 
take  care  of  him.  And  it  might  all  end  in  his  marrying 
me.  But  if  I'd  known  at  the  time  just  how  things  were, 
I  would  never  have  owned  to  the  truth  of  that  letter — I 
wouldn't  have  dared. 

"Your  break  with  Justin  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
Your  father  grew  cautious,  and  to  ward  off  suspicion  Jus- 
tin had  to  appear  to  have  plenty  of  ready  money.  He  had 
to  furnish  Adele  and  others  with  their  incomes.  He  be- 
gan to  use  other  money  he  had  in  trust.  He  worked  out 
a  system  of  false  vouchers,  bogus  deeds — I  don't  know 
what  all.  Oh,  the  whole  thing  was  bad,  just  as  bad  as  it 
could  be!  I  think  Justin  has  been  insane — it's  the  only 
plea  that  can  be  made  for  him  to  the  grand  jury." 

"And  it  has  come  to  that?"  Myra  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Swift  said,  haggardly.  "Yes.  .  .  .  Justin 
has  had  an  enemy  all  these  years.  Some  ten  years  ago 
he  took  a  man  named  Nathan  Kodis  into  his  office.  The 
man  was  clever.  At  various  times  Kodis  acted  as  Jus- 
tin's private  secretary.  You've  probably  seen  him — a 
Polish  Jew,  a  small,  red-haired  man.  It  seems  he  had  a 
long-standing  account  to  settle  with  Justin.  Years  ago 
Justin  played  with  the  little  Jewish  girl  to  whom  Kodis 
was  engaged.  Justin  did  her  no  harm,  but  the  upshot 
of  it  all  was  that  she  threw  Kodis  over.  She  went  to  the 
bad,  I  believe,  finally,  and  Kodis  laid  it  to  Justin's  door." 
She  drew  an  uneven  breath.  "Well,  the  man  has  watched 
and  waited — he  has  his  revenge  now.  He's  told  enough 
to  frighten  those  people  whose  money  Justin  has  played 
with,  and  they  are  demanding  an  investigation.  .  .  . 
Then  they'll  prosecute." 

400 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Adele  will  prosecute?" 

"I  don't  know  what  she  will  do;  it's  those  others.  I 
don't  know  that  she  knows  yet  that  her  money  is  gone." 

Myra  sat  silent,  thinking.  The  thing  was  a  fact;  it 
must  be  faced.  .  .  .  And  if  they  dug  back  into  the  past  this 
woman's  history  and  her  child's  parentage  would  be  ex- 
posed. Mrs.  Swift  had  made  no  plea  for  herself,  she  had 
not  put  herself  first,  but  Myra  knew  what  she  was  fighting 
for,  what  she  had  always  fought  for  —  her  child. 

Mrs.  Swift  watched  Myra  intently,  the  intensity  of  hope 
that  had  brought  her,  and  the  almost  certainty  of  failure 
alternately  racking  her.  The  muscles  of  her  face  twitched. 
She  had  been  on  the  rack  for  days;  self-control  was  de- 
serting her.  It  made  her  voice  falter. 

"There  will  be  only  one  solution  —  for  Justin  —  " 

Myra  looked  at  her  then,  her  wide,  questioning  look. 

"The—  short  way—  out—  " 

Myra  sprang  up.  "Oh  no!  .  .  .  Why,  he  wouldn't  do 
that!  ...  He  mustn't  give  up  like  that!  He  must  live  to 
pay  those  people  back!  .  .  .  The  other  way  —  that's  too— 
despicable!" 

"But  how  is  he  to  go  on?"  Mrs.  Swift  asked,  her  hands 
clasping  and  unclasping  as  she  looked  up  at  Myra. 


"I  would  help  him  do  it." 

"Oh,  would  you!  Oh,  Myra  Milenberg,  would  you  do 
it?"  She  had  leapt  to  her  feet,  her  strong  hands  grip- 
ping Myra's  shoulders.  "You  can  save  him—  you  can 
save  us  all—  you  can  hush  up  one  of  the  worst  scandals 
St.  Louis  has  ever  known!  .  .  .  You  realize—  I  know  you 
do;  you  have  a  level  head.  If  your  father  dies  you  will 
be  a  very  rich  woman.  You  would  not  grudge  enough  to 
satisfy  the  claims  of  those  people  Justin  has  robbed?  All 
they  want  is  to  know  their  money's  safe.  And  if  your 
father  lives,  you'll  persuade  him  to  help?  ...  You  would 

do  it?    You  really  mean  it?" 

401 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

And  Myra  answered  in  much  the  same  words  her  mother 
had  used  to  her  father.  "Yes,  I  would.  ...  I  married 
Justin  to  be  his  friend.  When  I  thought  it  was  best  to 
leave  him,  I  begged  him  to  be  my  friend.  I  couldn't  be 
his  enemy." 

"There  are  not  many — would  do  like — you — "  Mrs. 
Swift  said,  brokenly.  "You  know — if  you  stood  aside — 
as  many  would — it  would  be  a  short  way  out  for  you — 
also.  .  .  .  You'd  be  free,  and  your  justification  advertised 
everywhere.  .  .  .  That's  been  your  father's  plan — just  to 
wait  and  let  Justin  hang  himself.  I  knew  that.  I  hadn't 
a  bit  of  hope  when  I  came  to  you.  I  walked  the  streets 
yesterday  in  despair.  I  came  off  here  to  New  York,  tell- 
ing Justin  that  I  meant  to  find  help  some  way — from  Hip- 
bard  or  some  one  else — but  that  was  more  to  keep  Jus- 
tin going  than  because  I  had  any  hope.  Then,  too,  I 
couldn't  risk  being  summoned.  I  knew  too  much.  .  .  . 
I  left  Justin  shut  up  in  Woodmansie  Place,  like  a  rat  in  a 
huge  gilded  trap,  afraid  to  put  his  head  outside  the  door. 
If  he  got  too  desperate  I  knew  what  he'd  do — "  She 
shuddered. 

"You  mean  he  is  alone — quite  alone?"  Myra  inter- 
rupted. She  was  much  the  calmer  of  the  two,  and  think- 
ing clearly. 

"With  only  the  servants.  One  has  to  smile  before  one's 
servants — " 

"But  he — "  Myra  stopped.  She  could  not  tell  this 
woman,  who  was  on  the  verge  of  collapse,  the  fear  that 
had  gripped  her.  "Don't  you  see — the  thing  you  must 
do  first  of  all?"  she  said,  swiftly.  "Get  word  to  Justin— 
as  soon  as  you  can — " 

Mrs.  Swift  put  her  hands  to  her  head.  "Yes,  yes,  I 
know — a  telegram — " 

"No,"  Myra  said,  positively.  "There's  a  quicker  way. 
. . .  Come  in  to  my  telephone.  Get  long  distance.  Tell  him 
you  have  found  help  .  .  .  that's  the  first  thing  to  do." 

402 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

"Of  course.  I'd  forgotten — I've  been  so  beside  my- 
self—" 

Myra  left  her  seated  at  the  telephone,  waiting  the  an- 
swer to  her  call.  She  went  out  then  to  the  kitchen  to 
order  food  for  her;  Mrs.  Swift  looked  as  if  she  had  not 
eaten  or  slept  for  days.  .  .  .  And  it  was  best  that  those  two 
should  speak  to  each  other  without  any  one  near  to  hear. 
.  .  .  The  answer  to  Mrs.  Swift's  call  came  presently;  Myra 
heard  the  brief  ringing  of  the  bell,  and  then  Mrs.  Swift's 
voice. 

When  there  was  silence  Myra  returned.  The  room  was 
very  still,  so  still  that  the  ticking  of  the  clock  was  distinct. 
The  telephone — greatest  modern  transmitter  of  joy  and 
sorrow,  of  mad  haste  and  leisurely  converse,  of  righteous 
endeavor  or  sinful  intent,  stood  with  receiver  dangling, 
and  as  soon  as  Myra  saw  Mrs.  Swift's  bowed  head  she 
knew.  .  .  . 

Justin  St.  Claire  had  chosen  to  send  a  marred  soul  into 
the  Great  Future. 

But  for  those  who  were  still  grappling  with  life  there 
was  work  to  be  done.  .  .  .  Myra  came  up  softly  and  put 
her  arm  about  the  woman's  quivering  shoulders. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

SPRING  had  laid  its  garment  of  tender  green  upon 
Turawa  Valley.  The  crowns  of  the  conelike  hills 
met  the  sky  appealingly,  their  softened  outlines  melting 
into  its  blue,  as  if  gently  asking  pardon  for  the  long  months 
of  hard  contact.  The  stretches  of  wheat-land  smiled 
vividly  up  at  the  chasing  clouds,  sobering  only  when  the 
clouds  cast  impatient  shadows  upon  their  smiles.  The 
orchards  bloomed  riotously;  New  Rome  nestled  in  pink 
and  white  and  green,  while  the  swollen  river  sucked  mis- 
chievously at  the  roots  of  the  overhanging  willows. 
Nature  was  stirring  like  a  healthily  growing  child,  digging 
eager  fingers  into  the  black  loam,  smiling  up  at  the  sun, 
flaunting  its  bright  garment  in  the  breeze. 

Myra  looked  out  upon  it  all,  understandingly.  She 
had  watched  day  by  day  from  the  arbor — into  the  early 
days  of  May.  The  terrace  with  its  earth-scented  beds 
of  sprouting  green  was  restful  after  the  garish  year-round 
display  of  the  house  above.  She  was  its  chatelaine,  for 
as  two  years  before  they  had  brought  her  to  the  quiet 
of  New  Rome  to  regain  her  strength,  just  so  they  had 
brought  her  father.  Her  mother's  time  was  given  to  her 
husband;  Myra  had  taken  upon  herself  the  duties  of  the 
household. 

She  was  thinking  now  that  it  would  not  be  for  long, 
for  her  father  was  steadily  improving.  He  would  never 
be  the  physically  active  man  he  had  been;  in  the  coming 
years  New  Rome  would  see  far  more  of  him  than  in  the 
past;  her  mother  would  have  her  place  at  his  side.  But 

404 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

his  keen  brain  was  unimpaired.  So  long  as  he  lived  James 
Milenberg  would  rule  his  little  world,  and  more  kindly  than 
in  the  past,  Myra  thought;  he  had  consented  to  shoulder 
some  of  the  responsibilities  St.  Claire  had  cast  aside. 

And  when  she  was  no  longer  needed  she  would  go  back 
to  the  life  she  had  made  for  herself.  Myra  looked  fre- 
quently at  Rolling-Mill  City.  Its  nakedness  was  un- 
softened  by  spring's  garment.  Blackened,  cinder-strewn, 
treeless,  belching  smoke  and  flame,  it  defied  nature's 
blandishments.  Its  grim  activity  suggested  the  cease- 
less roar  of  the  great  workshop  to  which  she  would  soon 
be  returning. 

Myra  was  thinking  somewhat  vaguely;  her  real  interest 
was  elsewhere,  for  she  was  waiting,  as  she  had  waited  for 
weeks,  growing  tense  as  the  hour  of  mail-distribution  ap- 
proached. She  knew  that  sooner  or  later  must  come  the 
letter  for  which  she  waited,  bearing  the  mark  of  some 
obscure  corner  of  the  world.  He  would  not  say  much — 
some  restrained  expression  showing  that  he  had  heard, 
and  a  few  pages,  probably,  given  to  his  travels.  It  would 
be  like  that;  it  could  be  no  otherwise.  Nevertheless, 
when  the  maid  started  down  the  terraces  with  the  usual 
bit  of  white  in  her  hand,  Myra's  breath  came  short. 

When  she  took  the  bulky  envelope  the  girl  gave  her,  the 
superscription  of  which  Myra  saw  even  before  it  touched 
her  hand,  her  eyes  dilated.  She  felt  cold,  a  little  numb 
and  stiff-lipped.  How  many,  many  such  thick  letters  she 
had  received!  Recollection  swept  over  and  through  her, 
and  until  her  hands  were  steady  enough  to  lift  it  she  let 
the  reminder  of  the  past  lie  in  her  lap  untouched.  It  was 
so  difficult  to  disentangle  the  present  from  the  past. 

Myra  opened  it  finally.  She  was  too  much  shaken  to 
notice  that  the  letter  was  postmarked  New  York. 

Myth   began   tensely,    breathlessly:    "Myra,   won 
whom  I  love,  the  larger,  finer  half  of  me,  I  am  coming 
to  you. 

4°5 


THE    LIFE-BUILDERS 

"I  had  thought  until  to-day  that  I  must  school  myself 
to  wait  a  little  longer  that  I  might  work  my  way  steadily 
up  to  you.  But  suddenly  the  way  lies  clear.  The  steamer 
brought  me  in  this  morning.  At  noon  I  saw  my  lawyer, 
and  an  hour  later  I  talked  with  Mrs.  Du  Pont-Maurice. 
It  was  she  who  told  me  what  had  befallen  you. 

"I  didn't  know,  dear.  I  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it. 
I  did  not  know  that  your  father  had  been  ill,  I  did  not 
know  that  you  were  free.  The  night  train  will  bring  me 
to  you.  You  will  scarcely  have  put  this  down  before  I 
shall  be  with  you.  I  write  because  I  want  you  to  know 
certain  things  that  we  need  not  discuss.  When  I  come  I 
want  just  one  thing — my  arms  about  you,  and  your  'yes* 
against  my  lips. 

"You  remember  your  ruling  that  we  must  part,  your 
courage  when  my  will  was  beginning  to  fail?  It  was  when 
I  said:  'You  are  right.  For  us  it  must  be  everything  or 
nothing,'  it  was  then  that — in  spite  of  my  grief  over  my 
poor  boy,  my  daze  and  misery,  and  the  old  demand  that 
was  rousing  in  me — it  was  then  I  began  to  plan.  My  rea- 
son had  rejected  what  to  us  would  have  been  the  lesser 
thing,  and  your  reason  concurred  with  mine.  That  was 
decided  between  us,  and  we  were  in  the  right. 

"But  I  could  not  sit  down  under  that  decision,  make 
no  struggle  to  win  my  mate,  and  in  such  manner  that  I 
could  embrace  her  before  the  whole  world.  In  the  days 
of  our  forebears  the  decision  to  part  and  forever — unless 
death  worked  for  us  a  miracle — would  have  been  the 
only  possible  thing.  It  is  not  so  in  this  day.  We  are 
questioning  whether  another  order  will  not  better  conserve 
the  race.  That  is  the  problem  we  are  trying  to  solve. 
We  want  to  cling  to  law  and  order;  largely  speaking,  we 
must  consider  the  masses  and  not  the  individual.  But 
we  are  allowing  the  individual  an  opportunity  to  judge 
of  his  own  case,  and  to  act  accordingly. 

"There  has  never  been  a  doubt  in  my  mind  that  your 

406 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

union  with  St.  Claire  was  a  mistake;  that  children  born  to 
you  would  have  been  a  mistake.  He  did  not  possess  an 
atom  of  the  paternal.  I  have  always  felt  that  you  were 
right  to  leave  him,  and  that  the  law  should  give  you  its 
sanction.  You  were  meant  for  wifehood  and  motherhood 
in  its  completest  and  highest  sense. 

"With  me  there  has  been  the  question  of  my  children. 
I  have  known  for  years  that  Caroline  was  no  better  fitted 
to  be  a  mother  than  St.  Claire  was  to  be  a  father.  But 
in  my  ignorance  I  had  assumed  a  responsibility,  and  I 
must  stand  by  it.  There  seemed  no  way  for  me  but  to 
keep  the  home  as  far  as  possible  intact. 

"But  when  I  left  you  I  was  asking  myself  the  question: 
what  great  end  was  I  serving?  I  had  found  my  mate. 
I  was  denying  my  manhood,  and  you  your  womanhood. 
There  was  in  us  the  capacity  for  life-building  at  its  best. 
The  only  restraining  consideration  was  the  welfare  of  the 
one  child  who  was  left  me. 

"  I  went  to  Jack  the  next  day  at  his  school.  He  is  only 
eleven,  but  I  meant  to  put  the  thing  to  him.  He  knows 
the  meaning  of  divorce — what  child  does  not,  these  days? 
We  talked  first  of  Dick,  and  I  was  glad  to  see  the  tears 
come  in  the  boy's  eyes;  I  had  always  thought  of  Jack  as 
unfeeling.  'Dick  was  a  nice  little  chap,'  he  said,  with 
the  brevity  of  any  grown  man.  'I've  felt  sorry.' 

"He  flushed  with  discomfort  when  I  talked  of  the  other 
thing.  I  shall  never  forget  the  look  of  my  son  as  he  sat 
on  the  edge  of  his  chair  and  listened  to  me.  Neverthe- 
less, there  was  decision  beneath  his  discomfort.  He 
nodded  as  I  went  on.  '  I  know,'  he  said, '  it  isn't  much  use 
when  people  don't  get  on  any  better  than  you  and  mother 
do.' 

"But  at  my  final  question  he  stabbed  me  to  the  quick. 
He  looked  out  at  the  grounds  where  the  other  boys  were 
kicking  a  football  about,  and  the  truth  came  from  him. 
'Why  do  I  have  to  live  with  either  of  you?'  he  asked. 

407 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

'Why  can't  I  stay  like  I  am — just  at  school  till  I'm 
grown  up?' 

"Myra,  that  answer  hurt  me  almost  as  much  as  parting 
from  Dick.  I  had  failed  in  parenthood  to  both  my  chil- 
dren. But  not  altogether  because  of  my  own  fault.  God 
knows  I  have  tried  to  do  the  best  I  knew  for  them.  The 
fault  lies  in  the  sort  of  home  Caroline  and  I  made.  What 
child  could  be  expected  to  love  it,  or  feel  any  great  con- 
fidence in  the  parents  who  provide  such  a  travesty?  I 
talked  to  my  boy  as  I  never  had  before.  In  that  hour 
Jack  and  I  came  nearer  to  each  other  than  in  all  his  eleven 
years.  He  has  the  making  of  a  sturdy  man  in  him,  that 
boy  of  mine.  I  mean  to  stand  by  him. 

"That  interview  with  my  son  set  the  seal  upon  my 
determination.  I  would  not  be  a  modern  man  well  ac- 
quainted with  modern  methods,  and  not  after  that  have 
followed  a  definite  plan.  But  I  played  fair.  I  went  to 
Caroline  and  made  my  plea.  She  might  make  her  own 
terms;  all  I  asked  was  my  share  in  Jack.  She  refused, 
and  not  because  her  reason  did  not  approve  the  thing  I 
urged.  She  refused  me  because  of  the  hatred  she  feels 
for  me.  And  a  certain  slyness  that  is  part  of  Caroline 
advised  her  that  I  would  submit. 

"But  she  was  wrong.  I  took  the  only  course  that 
would  impress  such  a  woman  as  Caroline.  I  left  her 
house;  I  refused  her  support;  I  severed  every  connec- 
tion; I  flaunted  my  freedom;  I  deliberately  tried  to  appear 
the  sort  of  man  I  am  not;  I  did  it  all  with  an  utter  dis- 
gust for  the  necessity.  The  laws  of  this  state  demand 
that  there  shall  be  at  least  the  appearance  of  evil.  Cecile 
Jerome  helped  me.  I  had  once  done  her  a  kindness,  helped 
one  of  her  brothers  to  a  position,  and  helped  him  to  make 
good.  It  was  an  amusing  play  to  her,  our  being  seen 
together  and  commented  on.  We  were  simply  for  the 
time  being  friends.  I  never  more  than  touched  her  hand. 
A  man  with  the  love  in  his  heart  that  I  have  for  you  crave 

408 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

any  other  woman!  That's  an  impossibility,  and  I  knew 
that  if  ever  talk  came  to  you  your  big  understanding 
nature  would  tell  you  that. 

"But  the  whole  procedure  sickened  me.  Why  do  our 
courts  continue  to  smugly  grant  divorces  because  of  situa- 
tions that  are  planned  to  deceive,  or  because  of  sins  com- 
mitted for  a  purpose?  Why  not  be  honest  and  concede 
that  the  discovery  of  a  whole  new  set  of  demands  in  mar- 
riage has  multiplied  the  causes  for  divorce?  ...  I  hate  to 
tell  you  of  those  weeks;  of  my  longing  for  you  that  again 
and  again  tempted  me  to  come  to  you  and  beg  for  the 
lesser  thing.  I  am  not  big-souled  as  you  are,  Myra.  I 
not  only  craved  you  day  and  night,  but  I  was  tormented 
with  jealousy.  In  spite  of  my  reason,  in  spite  of  the  love 
I  knew  you  bore  me,  I  was  jealous.  I  was  toiling  along 
at  a  distance  from  you,  and  others  could  touch  your  hand. 
It  was  hateful,  but  it  is  best  you  should  know  the  worst 
of  me. 

"And  when  I  knew  that  I  had  succeeded,  that  Caroline 
would  soothe  the  hurt  to  her  pride  by  taking  the  tempting 
bait  my  lawyer  in  combination  with  hers  had  offered  her — 
Manor  Park  Place  and  the  third  of  my  remaining  fortune — 
still  I  dared  not  come  to  you.  I  would  not  be  bringing 
you  absolute  certainty.  And  until  I  had  my  freedom  I 
could  not  fight  your  battle  for  you — force  St.  Claire  to 
free  you — even  then  I  dared  not  come  to  you. 

"There  was  a  space  during  which  I  must  wait.  To 
put  temptation  beyond  me  I  went  to  Europe.  Sickened 
as  I  was,  I  longed  for  the  open,  for  the  feel  of  rock,  and 
the  smell  of  damp  earth.  And  curiously  enough,  the  big 
silences  brought  me  a  certain  peace.  My  torment  and 
my  disgust  slipped  from  me.  A  more  perfect  love  grew 
in  me.  ...  I  came  back  to  find  that  the  power  that  gives 
no  heed  to  man's  small  machinations  had  set  you  free. 

"Myra,  woman  whom  I  love,  be  kind  to  me. 
bringing  to  you  a  cleaner  and  a  finer  love  than  I  once 

409 


THE   LIFE-BUILDERS 

offered  you.  And  I  believe  that  you  also  have  grown 
into  a  larger  understanding,  for  yours  is  a  nature  that 
will  grow  and  grow.  What  do  our  small  differences  mat- 
ter? Fundamentally  we  desire  the  same  thing,  the  thing 
we  desired  as  boy  and  girl :  the  lifelong  union  of  one  man 
with  one  woman — a  home  ministered  to  by  both — and 
in  that  home  to  build  life. 

"You  will  watch  me  come  through  the  valley  and  up 
the  hillside  to  you. 

"Myra,  you  will  not  say  me  nay." 

When  she  had  done  Myra  sat  very  still.  Many  times 
in  the  past  she  had  kissed  her  lover's  messages,  warmly, 
eagerly,  transports  of  her  girlhood,  ebullitions  of  her  youth. 
But  this  was  the  entire  future  that  she  held  to  her  breast, 
and  she  held  it  with  the  brooding  tenderness  and  pas- 
sionate joy  of  possession  with  which  a  mother  looks  down 
on  her  sleeping  child.  Hers  was  the  deep-running  reverie 
of  maturity.  .  .  .  "O  ye  of  little  faith!"  She  had  doubted 
and  been  rebuked.  ...  "To  him  who  loveth  much  is  given 
much."  To  her  was  given  a  "new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth." 

He  had  bade  her  wait  for  him  there.  She  sat  on  into 
oncoming  twilight,  her  eyes  on  the  gap  between  the  hills 
opposite,  through  which  the  train  would  bear  him.  She 
bent  forward  with  parted  lips  when  the  first  spiral  of 
smoke  announced  his  coming.  She  watched  it  lengthen 
out  into  snakelike  curves  across  the  wheat-land,  lost  it 
briefly  in  the  snorting  inferno  of  Mill  City,  watched  it 
emerge  and  creep  along  the  river's  edge  until  it  paused  in 
New  Rome,  grown  suddenly  into  panting  volumes. 

Myra  waited  then,  standing  through  the  time  that  must 
intervene.  It  was  when  she  saw  the  tall,  hurrying  form 
on  the  terrace  above  that  she  left  her  post.  The  next 
moment  they  held  each  other  close. 

THE   END 


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